


Shall We Not Revenge?

by blarghe



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Banter, Fluff and Angst, Friendship/Love, Fun, Gay, Healing, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Multi, NSFW, Original Character(s), POV Multiple, Self-Indulgent, Sex, relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-14
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:21:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 29
Words: 112,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23143834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blarghe/pseuds/blarghe
Summary: A stranger infiltrates the Inquisition. Despite presenting with initial hostility, the stranger professes to want to help. The story moves forward with added quests, and we spend a lot of time in Skyhold getting to know one another. Expect dialogue, banter, slow burning romance arcs and a few twists through the main story. Angst, tempered with fluff.
Relationships: Male Inquisitor/Dorian Pavus
Comments: 4
Kudos: 21
Collections: Dragon Age Den (NSFW)





	1. The Spy

**Author's Note:**

> The is my absolute first foray into fanfic writing. Quite a bit is written already, and more is mapped out, so I'll be updating regularly until I stop ;)
> 
> To be completely frank, I wrote this out of pure self-indulgence; to satisfy an urge and to assemble properly a story that wouldn't leave my head. I plan for it to loosely follow the structure of the game's plot, with a few added quests brought about by my OC companion, Leila. I wanted to explore not only new relationships between this OC and my Inquisitor, and between the Inquisitor and the rest of his inner circle, but various relationships within that circle as well. In other words, I love coming up with banter and scenes of characters just hanging in Skyhold. If that's your jam too, climb aboard. 
> 
> Note update July 3, 2020:  
> As this thing goes on, I've made it a habit to keep nsfw scenes to their own chapters, so for the curious they are currently chapters 10 and 16.

_There’s a divinity that shapes our ends,_   
_Rough-hew them how we will._

Cullen was just rounding the corner away from his office, embarking on his usual morning patrol around Skyhold's battlements, when a nagging feeling that something was off caused him to turn around. At first he assumed to shake it off as being only twinges of an old paranoia, but as he scanned the area something stuck out. Was his office door ajar? Had he forgotten to lock it? No, he was certain he had not. Cullen sighed and began to walk back toward his office. Probably just Sera, he thought, but he steeled himself before pushing the door open anyway. Old habits.  
  
There, crouched over a chest in the corner by the bookshelf and shuffling through piles and piles of incredibly private documents – patrol routes, scouting reports, battle stratagems, maps and detailed profiles of various Inquisition spies and military agents, once organized and well stored in his desk drawers – was a girl, a girl who was not at all Sera.  
  
Cullen drew his sword in one swift motion, and the girl simply vanished. He stood still a moment, scanning the room intently. An overhead beam quivered. Cullen shoved it's support, causing the whole structure to shake, and heard a thud. Suddenly, the girl was visible again, with daggers flying at his throat. She managed one swift stab before he blocked her attack. He felt the sharp edge of her blade distantly, and countered it instinctively, though with more strain than he was expecting – maker, was he that out of practice? She staggered back, then disappeared in an instant once more.

Cullen had been slowly weaning himself off lyrium since becoming severed from the order, and his Templar abilities had begun to fade, but he could still feel that familiar pull of magic in the air. He tensed and lunged with his shield just in time to block a blast of ice from across the room. Without his abilities he had lost the power to dispel this magic, but with concentration he could track its presence in the room and sense her movements. And now, he sensed that she was running at him again; invisible, but there. With daggers.

He breathed in. With one well-timed blow Cullen countered the attack and stunned the girl well enough that her cloak faltered. She fell and a dagger flew from her hand, scattering across the floor with a clang. He breathed out. She scrambled backwards. He strode forward - no, not that out of practice - Cullen thrust his sword toward her throat defiantly.  
  
“Drop your weapon.” He commanded, sword poking threateningly close to the girl's neck. She dropped the other dagger and lifted her hands tentatively in surrender. “And don't try anything else.” He growled.

A runner, hearing the commotion, took that moment to barge through the door. “Commander!” She exclaimed, taking in the scene.

“Get Cassandra.” Replied Cullen.

\----

Cassandra paced along the length of the cell, her brow furrowed, and her dark hair cast a shadow over squinting eyes. Cullen and Leliana stood aside, arms crossed, though on Cullen the posture was stiff and unsettled, while Leliana appeared utterly at ease. Josephine had joined them as well, looking rather out of place in Skyhold’s dungeon in her shining sleeves and elegant skirt, and was hastily recording the events which had led to this interrogation on her parchment with a large feathered quill. Cullen was glaring at the girl, keeping a watchful eye despite the fact that whatever threat she'd been back in his office was now thoroughly neutralized by Cassandra's abilities, and the chains binding her wrists. Leliana's expression was almost relaxed; calm, but undeniably intrigued. She watched closely as well, but for more than just potential threats.  
  
“Tell me who you are! Who sent you?” Cassandra demanded again. The girl had not spoken yet in the first hour of shouted questioning, but Cassandra was nothing if not persistent. The girl clenched her jaw, refusing the question.

“There are ways...” Leliana began in a tone that was not quite reluctant enough.

“No.” Cassandra cut her off shortly. “At least not yet, not until he gets back.”

The girl's eyes followed the exchange, darting back and forth, thinking, planning. Leliana squinted back.

“She did attack me, and she was spying on the Inquisition. That much is clear enough, whoever she works for is likely an enemy that will present itself regardless. If she won't answer to us, the sentence is simple.” Cullen finally spoke up, anger still lingering in his voice. The girl shot him a look as piercing as her daggers. “We have the authority to neutralize threats as they arise.” Cullen went on, reminding his fellow advisors.

“We cannot simply _kill_ her.” Protested Josephine, offended by the thought. “Not without a trial.”  
  
“A trial for what?” Cullen argued back, “what part of ‘she broke into my office and tried to kill me’ is in question here? There are already rules in place for these sorts of situations, and I say we follow them.”  
  
“It just isn’t done.” Insisted Josephine. 

“Cullen has a point.” Said Cassandra, “If she forfeits her right to talk, which she does seem to do...” 

This comment seemed to finally worry the girl, and her confident glare faltered slightly. The conversation was not heading in a promising direction for her. 

“The Inquisitor...” the imprisoned spy finally spoke, and all eyes turned to her. “You want information? I'll share it with him. Tell him I've got a proposal for him.” Her voice was low, quiet, but commanding enough to elicit an eyebrow raise from Leliana.

The girl’s interjection did not go over well. The four advisors were on the verge of another argument when a runner arrived to bring news of the Inquisitor’s mission. Things were going ahead of schedule, and he and his party would be returning to Skyhold within three days. 

“Fine.” Said Cassandra, “that settles it.” She turned to address the prisoner. “The Inquisitor will deal with you when he returns.” She then addressed the guards. “Keep a very close watch on her.” She said, sternly, and made to leave the dungeons. The others followed behind; Leliana seemed almost pleased, and Josephine relieved, Cullen was neither. 

The prisoner spent two full days chained to the inside of a cell in Skyhold’s dungeon, shivering in the damp cold brought in by the spray of the waterfall it opened upon. The cliff would have been a pretty spot, if it weren’t also a dungeon, and lined with heavily barred cells. Cullen took it upon himself to spend all his time between his other duties keeping watch on the girl personally. He stood guard a short distance away from her cell, watching intensely. She did not speak a word to him, nor scarcely even acknowledge he was there, save for glaring unhappily through the bars whenever her daily meal was deposited. She wasn’t keen on acknowledging those either. 

Finally, on the third day, which was particularly cold and rainy, after she had refused a third meal, Cullen felt a slight pull of sympathy.  
  
“I swear to you it is not poisoned.” He said, gruff, yet reassuring. The prisoner did not respond. 

“You’ll have your audience with the Inquisitor, just eat the damn food.” He commanded. The girl obliged, cautiously at first, though she managed to completely empty her bowl of watery soup in under a minute. 

“I’m not sure what you mean to accomplish,” Cullen muttered, more to himself than to the girl, “but if you really have information to share I’m not letting you die before you do.”

\----

The Inquisitor returned late that evening, soaked through by the rain and also with blood, with his party following behind looking much the same. Josephine was first to meet them in Skyhold’s entryway.  
  
“Inquisitor,” She addressed him courteously, a pile of parchments atop her clipboard as usual. The inquisitor’s party took this as their cue to quickly dart off to their respective chambers for a well-earned rest. Inquisitor Taren Lavellan remained. He brushed aside some of his auburn hair and straightened, knowing his rest would likely have to wait. 

“The report is good, Josephine.” He said, casually, “we ran into a bit of trouble with bandits, but nothing we couldn’t handle.” He was lying. The bandits had been incredibly difficult to handle. 

“That is good to hear, Your Grace.” Said Josephine, still all formalities. Then she looked him up and down, and began to fuss. “We shall have to get you cleaned up immediately, I’ll have some servants draw you a bath - you’re sure you aren’t hurt? I could send for-”  
  
“- I’m fine, Josephine. Thank you.” Taren said, smiling slightly. Josephine had already pointed two servants, who seemed to materialize out of nowhere whenever she needed them, in the direction of the Inquisitor’s quarters to draw his bath. 

“Certainly. I will leave you to rest. However, before I do, I am afraid there is something you should know…” She began, her official tone emerging again as she spoke.  
  
“What is it?”  
  
“While you were away, I’m afraid that Skyhold was… well compromised, I believe, is the best word for it.”  
  
“Compromised?” Taren was visibly concerned by the word.  
  
“Three days ago, an apostate was caught infiltrating Cullen’s office.” Josephine reported. The news did nothing to ease the Inquisitor’s displeased expression. “Not to worry, there was, so far as we have been able to tell, only one intruder. She waits in the dungeon for your… interrogation.”  
  
“Did you not interrogate her while I was away? What did this intruder want?” The Inquisitor was unsettled.  
  
“She would not speak to us.” Cassandra said bitterly, arriving at Josephine’s side, with Cullen following close behind. The Inquisitor looked to each of them in turn.  
  
“I questioned her for hours, and Cullen guarded the cell himself, but she refuses to give over any information except to you personally.” Cassandra continued, clearly frustrated. 

“Do you have any idea what she could have been searching for in your office?” Taren turned his attention to Cullen. 

“There are all sorts of confidential documents stored there. Information about our troops, specifically, and some of the undercover agents we have working for us.” Said Cullen. 

Cassandra nodded. “A Tevinter spy, most likely.” She said.  
  
“There is also… me.” Cullen added, “Leliana keeps more valuable documents than I do, and the way she went about trying to steal them from me - it’s almost as though she wanted to catch me off guard, to attack.”  
  
“This spy attacked you? In your office?” The inquisitor’s eye flicked to a short gash across Cullen’s clavicle. It was healing, but still red, and moreover it bore signs of magical bonding; the skin stretched and stitched evenly together upon itself - which meant it had been no small wound. 

Cullen gave a terse nod. “It is lucky I haven’t yet lost all my Templar abilities.” He stated. 

Taren’s expression was unusually grim. “This is serious.” He said. 

“She’s offered information, though only to you,” said Cullen, “and I’m not sure I would trust it.” 

“I advise that we address this matter first thing in the morning.” Josephine chimed in, seeing her servants return from setting up the Inquisitor’s bath. “And allow the Inquisitor to get some rest tonight.”  
  
“No,” Said Taren, with a slight sigh, “I think I’d like to handle this now.” Cullen nodded seriously in agreement.  
  
“Inquisitor, surely this can wait -”  
  
Taren shook his head. “Someone is sending spies into Skyhold to try to kill my advisors, and I want to know who that is. Right now.” He said, his tone uncharacteristically angry. The Inquisitor was not having a good day.

\----

Within minutes, Inquisitor Taren Lavellan had descended into the dungeons, still wet from the rain, still wearing the dirt and blood of his exploits in the Hinterlands on his coat. Cullen led the Inquisitor over to the prisoner’s cell, where the small mage sat in a crumpled heap, twitching in and out of an uneasy sleep. 

Cassandra and Josephine followed behind, and they were joined soon after by Leliana. Josephine looked uneasy, and under-dressed for the cold dungeon. She rubbed her arms for warmth. Cassandra had one hand on her sword in its sheath, always defensive, and Leliana crossed her arms, looking over the prisoner calmly. Cullen tapped the bars of the cell, waking the prisoner. The girl started, pulling at her chains as she jolted awake with hands positioned to hold daggers, and eyes blazing with anger. Then, seeming to realize her surroundings, she sank back to the ground on her knees, and looked up at the crowd of people looking down at her, her eyes still angry. 

The inquisitor examined her carefully. She was much younger than he had expected. She didn’t seem exactly strong, or fearsome, or really at all threatening - even those angry eyes which seemed to declare such fierce confidence were clearly masking something else. Was it fear, or pain? Long messy curls of black hair fell over her shoulders, ragged with the dirt and dampness of the dungeons. She shivered slightly, though she was clearly trying to hide any signs of weakness, and her expression lost some of it’s anger as she realized who was looking back at her.

“Well, here he is. Are you happy? Will you _speak_ now?” Cassandra demanded, fed up and unforgiving. 

“I’ll talk to the Inquisitor.” Replied the prisoner, evenly. 

“I’m told you tried to steal from the Inquisition, and attacked my commander.” The Inquisitor repeated the prisoner’s charges with gravity.

The girl nodded. 

“Why?” Said Cullen, unable to keep himself from demanding an explanation. 

“I’ll talk to the Inquisitor.” The prisoner repeated the statement with force. 

“Why should I hear what you have to say?”

The prisoner was quiet, considering her answer. She opened her mouth to speak, and was interrupted.

 _“If you tell them the truth they will listen. The Inquisition helps.”_

The girl closed her mouth, her eyes darting around her surroundings, startled. 

“She’s cold, Inquisitor. Does she have to be cold?” The voice rang out from the nearby shadows, full of concern. 

“Cole! How did you -” Taren started, spinning in place to face the boy. Cole was now directly behind him. 

“I followed the sound of the hurt. It was very loud. Hurt searing screaming skin sizzling. You need to help her, don’t let her be hurt any more.” Cole’s large eyes seemed to stare through the Inquisitor and into the girl.  
  
“Hurt her more?” Taren turned now to face his advisors, “has she been hurt by us?” He was angry. “The Inquisition does not torture its prisoners - what guards were in here? I don’t care if she wouldn’t talk, the Inquisition does not -” He seemed prepared to throw someone else in prison, but Cassandra cut him off.  
  
“The thought did cross my mind, Inquisitor, but I assure you that no one has touched the prisoner.” She said through clenched teeth. 

“I have guarded this cell every day.” Cullen reassured, “no harm has come to the prisoner... despite what she may deserve.” 

Taren calmed, slightly. “Cole? What ‘hurt’ do you mean?”

Cole seemed to think for a moment. “Doesn't want to die there but doesn't want to live either. Everything cries out, her hurt is so loud. Can't look at them another day. Like animals in a zoo, and I’m his pet. Maker, those poor children -”  
  
“- Get your creepy little ghost out of my head!” The prisoner demanded unexpectedly, glaring at Cole.

“‘Out out out out...’ _Ow._ ” Cole cocked his head to one side. “So much practice keeping out... no... but I can help! She doesn’t want me to hear, she thinks... that if I can tell you all she knows you won’t need her anymore and then you - but we _won’t_ do that. The Inquisition is good.” Cole continued, apparently talking to the prisoner and the Inquisitor at once, at least sort of. The conversation was rather one-sided. There was a long silence as everyone looked at Cole, and Cole looked back at the prisoner, eyes sorrowful and expression confused. 

“What was that about children?” Taren spun back again to face the prisoner, “you’re telling me that she hurt _children_?” It was both an accusation for the prisoner and a question for Cole.  
  
“No!” The prisoner and Cole both responded at once; the prisoner was forceful, angry, and Cole, as always, was honest. 

The Inquisitor's brow furrowed. “What information is it that you have to offer?”

“Information that can help your cause. But it’s not free.” Replied the prisoner, her mask of confidence mostly regained. 

“Tell me what you know and perhaps I can let you go.” Offered the Inquisitor, while Cassandra made a noise of disapproval behind him.

The prisoner shook her head. “No. I will tell you what I know in exchange for the protection of the Inquisition.” She had collected herself, and spoke calmly and with a sureness that yet again had Leliana intrigued. 

Leliana gave Taren a short nod of encouragement.

“You can't possibly consider this!” Started Cassandra, offended at the thought and at Leliana’s encouragement.

“She did try to kill me, you know.” Cullen reiterated sternly.

“And failed – or is the Knight Captain afraid that was a fluke?” The determined young prisoner interjected. Cullen glared at her. 

“I want protection for information.” The prisoner said again, still playing at confidence, though a note of desperation slipped through in her voice. “I will even offer my services to your cause. You have my word if I can have yours. I’ll join your Inquisition - swear the oath, whatever.”

“You want to join? After you attacked my Commander?” 

“Then keep me under guard.” She looked directly at the Inquisitor. “If I’m going to tell you everything I know, I’d rather appreciate you letting me keep my life in exchange. So: protection, information.”

“Perhaps we should hear her out?” Josephine suggested tentatively, next to a nodding Leliana and a head-shaking Cassandra. 

Cole was quiet, but his allusions to the prisoner’s mental torment gave Taren pause. “What sort of information and what sort of services are you offering, exactly?” The Inquisitor replied. 

“My services as a thief, if you have need of one.” 

“I’m not sure I do. Besides, you were caught.”

“I also managed to sneak into your fortress. You may find you want to make that harder to do, I could help you there.” Replied the prisoner, smugly. “And I have information on your enemies - I know a good deal more than you do about the Venatori, I’m sure of that. I will tell you who sent me, what they want, what they have on you.” 

That caught the Inquisitor’s attention. “You would betray your employer?” He asked, surprised. Venatori agents were not usually so quick to betray the cult’s cause. 

There was a quiet pause as the prisoner looked intently into the Inquisitor’s eyes, as though trying to read his character. _The inquisition helps._ Cole’s words. She heard them and then immediately forgot if she had heard them or only remembered them. The prisoner sighed deeply. 

“I wouldn’t call him an employer, exactly.” She said finally, as she tossed her hair over one shoulder with a shake of her head, and bent forward to reveal the back of her own neck. The prisoner’s neck bore some sort of noble crest, angry and red, branded into her dirt-caked skin.

Josephine let out a small gasp, and even Cassandra’s mouth fell open in surprise. Leliana appeared even more intrigued. 

“Is that a brand? You're a _slave_?” Cullen breathed the words in shock from his position just beside the Inquisitor, scowl faltering.

“Not anymore. Not if you help me,” The girl looked up again, the desperation in her eyes no longer so hidden, “that is what you do, isn't it?”

“Yes, it is.” Said Cole, whose presence was suddenly obvious again where it hadn't been before. He looked intently at Taren. 

“Give us a moment alone.” Said the Inquisitor.

Cullen, Leliana, Josephine and Cassandra filed out of the dungeons slowly, tossing uneasy and even guilty looks over their shoulders. Cullen, in particular, looked conflicted.  
  
“You too, Cole.” The Inquisitor said, after the dungeon had apparently emptied. 

“Sorry.” Said Cole, and he too walked out, concern blanketing his features. 

\----

Taren unlocked the prisoner’s cell, stepped inside, and knelt down to face the prisoner at eye level.  
  
“Alright, I’m listening.” He said. 

The girl allowed herself a look of slight relief, she leaned back against the back wall of the cell, the chains on her wrists jangled as they were pulled tighter, and the Inquisitor was briefly called back to his own experience in such chains. The Inquisitor kept his distance, sat down somewhat uncomfortably on the hard cell floor in front of her, and watched her carefully.

“His name is Amandeus.” Said the prisoner, “the Venatori slaver who sent me. He's a Magister, or a disgraced one at least. And I am - was - his best agent.” Taren grimaced at that. The prisoner noticed. “That doesn’t make me loyal, I am not…” She began to trail off, “it doesn’t matter.” She sighed. “His game is information, and artifacts too, not just slaves. He sent me here for a particular artifact you took from Haven, and to gather whatever confidential information I could.” The prisoner admitted her mission with relative ease.  
  
“And attacking Cullen?” Asked Taren, the grimace not entirely gone from his face. 

The prisoner shook her head. “That was… an accident.” 

The Inquisitor examined her with suspicion. 

“I wasn’t trying to kill him, I swear.” The prisoner insisted. 

Taren was unsure whether or not to believe that. “What did this Amandeus want with the artifact?” He asked, letting the issue go for the moment.

“To sell it. A Magister named Crassius was offering a fair bit of gold, and another man - Samson - was interested in anything on the Inquisition troops.” 

Samson. That was a name Taren knew well. “Your master sold to Venatori and Red Templars?” 

The prisoner nodded. “I’m not sure he really cares about the Venatori. He would talk about it like he did; Tevinter glory and so on,” she shook her head, “but he had his hands in everything he could.” 

“So he’s a black market trader with flexible loyalties, making money and getting slaves out of this war?” The Inquisitor sighed. “Figures. What else is new?” 

“Everyone he made deals with had one thing in common - they’re all against you. Some you wouldn’t expect, too - I know for a fact that there are two Chantry Mothers in southern Orlais helping to smuggle Red Lyrium into Ferelden.”  
  
“Why not tell all this to the others?” The Inquisitor questioned, “If you weren’t willingly working for the Venatori…”

“The former Left and Right Hands of the Divine and Knight Captain Cullen? I know who your people are, Inquisitor. You may be happy having three high ranking Chantry officials for advisors, but many of us apostates are still a bit apprehensive about such things.” Replied the prisoner.

“The Inquisition is not affiliated with the Chantry.” Countered the Inquisitor. “And the rebel mages are our allies; I myself am a mage, you must have known that.” 

“I’ve worked for Amandeus a long time, Inquisitor." The prisoner said, slowly. "You won’t like hearing about the trouble I’ve caused you. If I had told your Templar or Seeker what I knew, they’d connect the dots to my involvement in some of the Inquisition’s… failures, and I wouldn’t have lived long enough to meet you.” 

The Inquisitor frowned, his brow furrowed. He did not like the sound of this admission. 

“Besides that, how do you define ‘willingly’?” Asked the prisoner with a sigh.  
  
“You said you were never loyal to your master.”

“I wasn’t. But I was also willing enough to live according to his bidding. Until now, that is.”

Taren thought carefully. He had more questions now than answers. “I’m going to need you to tell me everything. If I’m to decide your fate…” He sighed now too. “I can’t make you any promises.”  
  
“I know.” Said the prisoner. “I waited to speak to you because you have a reputation for being merciful, Inquisitor Lavellan. I hope that it’s true.” 

Taren frowned at that as well, he did not relish this responsibility.

“And even if you do decide that you can’t let my crimes stand, I hope that what people say about your Inquisition is true. I’m not sure that what I can tell you is enough to buy my life, but even so, I want to make up for some of what I’ve done.” She concluded, her words heavy. 

Taren considered these words, at once eager and nervous to learn what the prisoner knew. 

“How long have you worked for this Amandeus?” Taren began his interrogation in what seemed the most appropriate place. 

“About two years.” Said the prisoner. “Though I didn’t earn the ability to go off on my own for him until more recently.” The Inquisitor raised an eyebrow questioningly. “Like I said, I wasn’t loyal.” Sighed the prisoner. 

“And when you were sent out, what sort of work did he have you do for him?”  
  
“I’m a thief, Inquisitor. I was a thief before I was…” She didn’t have a word to finish that sentence. “Amandeus had use for those talents.” 

“You have stolen from the Inquisition before?” 

“Yes.” 

The Inquisitor gave her a pressing look.  
  
“From your scouts, intercepting letters and reporting the contents. When your troops were met by Venatori in the Hinterlands, the Venatori knew your approach because I reported the information to Amandeus, and he sold the troop movement plans to the highest bidder.” She explained.

“Cullen lost ten men in that fight.” Commented Taren, beginning to see the prisoner’s earlier point. 

“I know. Two of your spies died because I stole their ciphers and those were sold to Red Templars who were able to intercept Leliana’s birds, for a time. She’s changed the cipher, I was supposed to get the new one. And about a year ago I stole some texts from an elven ruin which were sold to a Magister Alexius.”  
  
“He works for the Inquisition now.” Taren said, though the implications of what the girl was saying were not lost on him.  
  
The prisoner nodded, “I was supposed to kill him while I was here.” She admitted. 

The Inquisitor’s frown deepened. “Have you killed Inquisition agents directly before?” 

There was a long pause before the prisoner finally replied. “Yes.” She said, her eyes on the floor.  
  
“How many?” 

The prisoner frowned. “I was sent to assassinate a diplomat who was supporting the Inquisition with large donations. I stole his donations, too. I was sent to assassinate a scout who was getting too close to discovering Amandeus’ main base of operations at the time, and I killed another three officers in the Hinterlands, and stole their orders to sell to a Templar commander.” She rattled off the list with apparent ease, though the Inquisitor didn't quite believe the act. Something in her eyes betrayed her.  
  
“But you say you weren’t loyal, even through all this?” He tested that confidence, and looked her in the eyes.

The prisoner looked away, offering yet another deep sigh. She shook her head. “Two years can be a very long time, Inquisitor.” She said.  
  
“You mean -” Taren began uncomfortably, unsure how to phrase it, “ - what Cole said, it sounded like…” He let the implication hang.  
  
“Your strange mind-reading friend saw more than I’d have liked. Maybe you can ask him what makes a person act loyal when they’re not.” The prisoner scowled. “Doing what Amandeus wanted kept me alive.” 

“And now?”  
  
“It’s been days. If you let me go, there’s nothing I could tell Amandeus to convince him I hadn’t told you everything. So I might as well tell you everything.” She was still looking pointedly _away_.

“That’s why you want to stay, why you asked for the Inquisition’s protection. If I let you go, he’ll come after you.” Taren concluded. The prisoner nodded. 

The Inquisitor stood, pacing in order to give thought to everything that the prisoner had told him. He didn’t know that he could trust her, but he pitied her. He looked at her cold, exhausted frame leaned against the wall across from him. He wanted to help her.

“Why attack Cullen?” He asked, finally.

“Self defense.” Said the prisoner, after a pause that went on too long.  
  
“Cullen said it seemed as though you wanted him there, but you say he wasn’t part of your mission. Why steal from his office at all?” 

The prisoner took another pause, eyes still focused on the ground just past her toes. “I think… that Amandeus sent me here knowing I wouldn’t make it out again.” She said. 

“Why would he do that?”  
  
The prisoner gave half a shrug. “I hadn’t been acting so loyal lately, wasn’t performing as well on missions. I let a few scores get away from me, didn’t always kill who I was sent to kill. I suppose if I followed through on this mission it would be a huge benefit for him, and if I didn’t do my job, I’d most likely be killed on sight.” 

“He wouldn’t have concerns about what you could say in an interrogation?” Taren gestured around the cell in disbelief.  
  
“Amandeus doesn’t know that I know as much as I do.” The prisoner smirked ever so slightly. “Besides, he would kill an intruder on sight, why wouldn’t you?” 

“Are you saying you wanted to get caught?”

“No, I was pretty sure you’d kill intruders on sight, too. There was information in your Templar’s office that I was meant to retrieve, and I wasn’t careful enough. Still, when I ended up imprisoned I was… relieved. I do want to help you, Inquisitor.” She looked at him, finally. And she seemed honest. 

“If you wanted to join, to escape, why not just surrender once you were inside Skyhold?”

“Sure - I’m an assassin and thief for your enemies, and an apostate, but I should just walk up to your diplomat’s office and ask nicely to be allowed to join up. Good plan, Your Grace, I can see why they put you in charge.” The prisoner let out a short laugh. 

Taren crossed his arms, not laughing.

“I just told you all the crimes I’ve committed against you, I know the reputations of your advisors - the mage-hating Templar who was Knight Captain during the worst time for mages in Kirkwall’s history. Leliana, the Nightingale, famous in Orlais as a brutal, ruthless spymaster - and I killed her spies. A Seeker of Truth from a line of famous dragonslayers…” She shrugged slightly. “And maybe getting caught, surrendering, and telling you everything I know to get myself out of Amandeus’ clutches sounds like a good plan to you, but this wasn’t my plan.” The young mage shook her head. "I did want to betray Amandeus, I did. But even if I could have…” her voice broke for just a second, and she continued "well, that wouldn't have been the smartest way to do it, would it?"  
  
“You’re saying you were going to do this job, and go back only to betray him, what, later? When? And why should I believe that?” 

“Have you ever been a slave to a blood mage?” The prisoner asked rhetorically. “The things he did - had me do - it is not a pleasant life.” She said, and her voice shook. With a deep breath the prisoner composed herself, holding back whatever details were troubling her, and moved on with her justification. “Amandeus is a bastard, but until recently most of what he had me doing was stealing from and killing _other_ bastard blood mages.” She said. “Things are different now. The world started ending _…_ ” She didn’t finish the thought. “I started hearing stories about the Inquisition, that whatever was happening to the world - you were trying to stop it. That you were helping people.” She sighed. “You hear a lot of those stories when you work for the other side, that’s how you know you’re working for the bad guys.” She noted, “well, that and all the torture.” Another poor attempt at humour at which neither party laughed. “I did what I had to do to stay alive, for as long as what I had to do was something I could actually live with.” The prisoner explained. “It turns out there’s a limit to that.”  
  
“What happened?” Taren asked, before he suddenly remembered the fraction of thought that Cole had let out earlier. “Children...” Taren said the word with dread in his voice.  
  
The prisoner nodded. “I’ve been a thief most of my life. I don’t know that I’ve ever been particularly honourable, even before - even before the last two years. I knew Amandeus traded slaves, that’s the market he was in when I… ended up working for him. But times being as they were, he was making more coin off of information and artifacts. I hadn’t heard anything about slave cargo in a long time. That was until about two weeks ago.” 

Taren was listening intently now. “Two weeks ago?” He prompted. 

“Amandeus scored a big deal, he was going to oversee it personally, move his base to these caves just West of the Frostbacks. He moved locations a lot, but Amandeus never stored anything in caves. Caves are where you store slaves. They’re connected by tunnels, so no one gets caught traveling caravans full of locked-up kids over the Imperial Highway.” The prisoner’s voice was angry, and wavered slightly. “I’ve seen a lot of terrible things, but this…” She paused, looking up at the Inquisitor. There was glint in her eyes; tears about to form, and he knew they were true. “The Venatori are gearing up for some ritual, and they need power. With blood magic, the more painful the process, the more powerful the magic. So Amandeus is overseeing the shipment of slaves. I… I couldn't…" she paused again. "If the world is really going to end, then I’m not going to help it along anymore. I don’t want to die a slave to that bastard. I don’t want anyone to. If I could, I was going to kill him. I survived everything I did because I felt like I had to, but now I don’t feel like I have to do anything except not help to end the world. Given the chance, maybe I could do more than that.”  
  
Taren stared at her. The emotion in her voice was raw, honest. He believed her. 

“Alright,” The Inquisitor said, finally, “In the morning, you’re going to report to my War Council everything you know about where these slaves are being kept, we’re going to follow up on what you claim, and if your information is true, I will shut this operation down.” Said the Inquisitor, crouching close to the prisoner now, “I’m giving you a chance to prove you mean it, to prove that you want to help us.” 

The girl nodded. “Thank you.” She said, quietly, the last of her bravery finally faltering. 

Taren stood to leave the cell, “what’s your name?” He asked, his face sympathetic. 

“Leila.” Said the girl. 

“Leila, I want to believe you. I want to help you, if I can.” Taren began, “but until I have proof of the things you've told me, I am afraid I’m going to have to keep you imprisoned here.” 

Leila nodded in understanding. 

Taren motioned to a guard at the dungeon’s entrance, signifying that the guard should retrieve his advisors from outside the dungeon. The four advisors entered the dungeon in silence, still eyeing the young prisoner with suspicion. Leila kept her eyes fixed on the cell floor. 

“You’ve made a decision?” Asked Leliana, reading the situation. 

“Yes.” Said Taren. “She stays here for now, but I do not believe that she means to be a threat to us. Tomorrow she will have her chance to prove that.”

“Not a threat?” Cullen exclaimed, “are you serious?”

The Inquisitor ignored Cullen’s outburst. 

“We can discuss this further in the morning.” Said the Inquisitor, exhausted and in no mood to reassure his advisors. He left the dungeon in a hurry to finally get out of his wet clothes and into a dry bed. 


	2. For Freedom

It would be two weeks since Leila’s capture in Cullen’s office before the Inquisition was finally able to act on the information she had supplied. The morning after the Inquisitor’s interrogation she had relayed all she knew about Amandeus’ slave hold in the war room, then it had taken Leliana some days to confirm the information, but not a word had been out of place. Following that, the Inquisitor had arranged to have Leila moved from the dungeons to a room in the eastern wing of the fortress, under guard, but comfortable. The suspicions of Taren’s advisors, however, did not end with that.

Cassandra worried that the information was a trap, that no slaves even existed at the location Leila had volunteered, but Leliana was certain of her sources. When the situation had been made clear, the debate as to how to approach it was next to emerge. Cullen suggested a large force, in case of an ambush, while Leliana insisted that a smaller party would be safer, as no one would be able to see them coming. Cassandra was adamantly against bringing Leila along at all, but Leila, whose presence the Inquisitor had allowed at each of these meetings, was able argue that she knew the habits of everyone Amandeus was likely to have on guard, and the layout of all the nearby tunnels. The Inquisitor was also insistent that the prisoner be given a chance to prove her intentions with the Inquisition. He had, in a rare moment of authoritarianism, reminded Cassandra of how things had turned out the last time they had given a prisoner a chance - namely, himself. 

For her part, the prisoner’s disposition had significantly improved. She had not become talkative, exactly, though she was rarely asked to be, but she had lost the air of anger and bitterness which she had so forcefully exuded whilst held in Skyhold’s dungeon. This was likely in large part thanks to Josephine, who, with all the grace of a skilled diplomat, had made sure to keep the prisoner comfortable. As was her way, Josephine was always polite and respectful, and such treatment seemed to be having a warming effect. Leila was courteous in return, and even willingly subjected herself to further interrogations by Leliana. Rest in a real bed and the provision of real meals had had a significant impact on the prisoner’s appearance, as well; despite being confined to a room at almost all times, a good deal of colour had returned to the girl’s tanned skin, and her somewhat angular features had softened.

After significant debate as to how to handle the task of rescuing slaves in the Frostbacks, a compromise was reached. The Inquisitor would lead a small party toward the caves, guided by Leila, who would be watched closely by Cassandra and kept in cuffs. Leliana coordinated spies to ensure the Inquisition would have the most opportune timing possible, and a party was assembled. 

Most of the Inquisitor’s inner circle were brought along for a medium-sized party. The Iron Bull, Varric, Blackwall and Sera had been eager to come along due to a mutual interest in punishing slave-trading Tevinters and red lyrium dealers. Cole was there too, somewhere, trying to help. However, Dorian and Solas were both away from Skyhold; Solas, helping with the excavation at Haven - recovering any magical artifacts that could still be salvaged, while Dorian was off in Val Royeaux on a favour for Josephine. Or perhaps just as an excuse to get to do some shopping. Vivienne, his other mage, was altogether disinterested in the Inquisitor’s new side-project. The party, as such, was large enough to deal with a significant amount of resistance, and small enough to be relatively discrete while travelling through the tunnels connecting the caves at the base of the mountain range. 

Following behind this initial party were some of the Inquisition’s soldiers and allied mages. The troops would hang back in case of a larger fight, bringing along wagons and healers enough to help manage the freeing of what Leila promised would be upwards of a hundred slaves. These forces were led by Cullen, who was still shooting the prisoner stiff glares at every meeting she was brought to, but had come to condemn more the man commanding her actions. 

\----

“You sure this is a good idea, boss?” The Iron Bull eyed Leila's small form with suspicion. “Following the spy back home?”

“Right,” retorted Leila from the front, where she was being lead by the particularly displeased Cassandra. “I suppose letting a spy into the Inquisition would be just too risky for you, huh Hissrad?”

The Iron Bull grunted. “See, that's what I'm talking about. She knows too much shit.”

Leila chuckled. Cassandra shot her a look.

The group walked on in silence for some time.

“Well, bringing down the stronghold of the biggest Tevinter slave-trader this side of the Waking Sea?” Varric couldn't not fill the awkward silence, “Fenris is going to be _so jealous_ ” He laughed to himself, and Cassandra shot him a look as well. 

Things fell quiet again as the party walked on. The location of Amandeus’ base was only a little over a day’s ride from Skyhold, and the party had dismounted their horses as they neared an entrance to the cave tunnels. Now, they hugged the walls of a large and dank tunnel, walking in as much silence as any of them could keep up. The tunnels had been empty thus far, save for the occasional large spider, and Leila’s shortcuts did appear to be working, as the path within the tunnels was beginning to look more and more well-trodden.  
  
“There,” Leila whispered, nodding toward an upcoming corner. There was torchlight coming through from the cave beyond. “That’s the first one.” She whispered, directing the statement at the inquisitor.

“Five caves?” Replied the Inquisitor, confirming the estimation Leila had given him before they left Skyhold. She nodded. 

“Sera, Cole.” The inquisitor gave his two rogues a go-ahead nod. Sera and Cole snuck forward with inexplicable stealth. They returned a few seconds later.  
  
“Three guards.” Said Sera, an unhappy look on her face, “right ton of people in cages. Looks like your new pal was true on that. I can take the guards, no problem.” She said, clearly eager.

“No fair.” Interjected The Iron Bull. 

“You get the next three then.” Sera shot back. 

“Just do it.” The Inquisitor commanded, and with that Sera had bounded around the corner, not at all stealthily, slinging arrows and counting them off gleefully as the guards fell. Then: “got em!” came her shout as the rest of the party rounded the corner into the cave. 

“Shhh!” Hushed Cassandra, as Sera laughed at her successful kills. “You’ll draw the rest of the guards.” 

“Let ‘em come!” Bellowed The Iron Bull, while simultaneously breaking the lock on a nearby cage by ramming the pommel of his axe into it. The people in the cages - mainly tired, hungry, young elves, looked petrified. 

“Five caves.” Taren repeated the number as he looked out at the thirty or so people locked into cages in this one cave alone, “Creators help me.” 

There wasn’t much time to spend dwelling on the situation, however. Drawn by the noise, more guards rounded the corner. Bull, Sera and Blackwall managed to handle the next five guards to come into the cave. Cassandra was still watching Leila closely, and the Inquisitor had begun forcing open cages and attempting to calm the nervous elves within, speaking to them calmly in Elvhen, promising help. Cole too, was picking the locks on cages and attempting to say helpful words where he could. 

More guards piled into the cave, rushing to handle the commotion. Cassandra was forced to abandon her watch on the prisoner and join in the fighting. Leila took this opportunity to quickly work her way out of the handcuffs, and began unlocking cages herself; freezing the locks with ice magic, and shattering them with a bash of her elbow. In all the commotion, no one noticed. 

Some minutes later, fifteen Tevinter guards lay dead or injured on the cave floor, as the captive men, women and children stared on in shock. Some of the youngest ones were crying. 

“ANYONE ELSE” Bellowed Bull, loudly enough that any guards in the surrounding caves would be bound to hear it. The threat didn’t exactly help to comfort the newly-freed slaves, but no more guards came running.

“Alright,” Said Taren, “spread out. Cassandra, go meet Cullen, he should be at the tunnel entrance by now.” He pointed to a spot on his map before tossing it toward Cassandra,“take Leila with you and -” 

The Inquisitor paused, Leila was nowhere near Cassandra. 

“-where is she?” 

“I knew it.” Muttered Cassandra, as she too realized that the girl had sprung herself free. 

“Over here!” Came a meek call from inside one of the large cages. Leila was attempting to quell the crying of a young elven boy. “He’s bleeding but I - Inquisitor, please, tell him I just want to help him.” 

The older elves around her looked defensive, some seemed to recognize her face and were whispering among themselves, pointing. A young woman leaned down to join Leila in trying to calm the boy, but she eyed Leila suspiciously as she did so. Leila was pretending not to notice. She picked up the small child - who must not have been older than three - and rocked him back and forth, one hand pressing a scrap of cloth firmly onto the boy’s leg. It was soaked through with blood. 

Taren spoke as loudly and as clearly as he could, in the most comforting tone he could manage while still reaching the whole cave of people. In Elvhen, and then in the Common Speech, he repeated who he was, that this was the Inquisition, that he would get them to safety, that he would personally make sure their injuries were treated. 

“We’re here to help.” Said Cole, mirroring the Inquisitor’s speech.  
  
“You’re going to be okay,” whispered Leila to the young boy, “I’m so sorry.” She spoke now directly to those slightly older elves who were looking at her with recognition. “I know that some of you know my face, but I’m not here on Amandeus’ behalf. And I’m going to kill him. I promise.” Most of the captives had calmed when the Inquisitor spoke, and many now worked to calm and help the rest, leaning on each other they exited their cells, walking tentatively out into the tunnels. “These people are going to help you get out.” Leila said. Then she whispered to the young boy, who was still crying, more softly now, in her arms. “I’m getting you out of here.” She promised him.

Taren had come over to where Leila stood and was repeating his speech as he went. With the help of some of the older prisoners - who were still only teenagers, at best - the crowd of people in the cave began to organize themselves and come to a quiet understanding. 

“Inquisitor? Can you ask him if he has family down here?” 

The Inquisitor spoke softly to the boy in Elvhen. The crying boy shook his head, and the Inquisitor frowned. He said something more in Elhen, softly. 

“Move your hand, let me see it.” He said to Leila. She obliged. The cut was small, but deep, and this was clearly not the first time it had opened up. The wound looked old, as though it had healed improperly a couple of times, and infection was beginning to set in. The Inquisitor cast a quick healing spell to stop the bleeding, placing a gentle hand over the cut and continuing to speak in Elvhen as he did. Leila watched him, eyes widening as she felt the whisper of magic emanating from the Inquisitor's hand, and the scrunched redness of the crying child's face was soothed with it. 

“Go with Cassandra, take him with you, find Cullen and the others and get them in here.” 

Leila obliged, following Cassandra toward the tunnel.  
  
“Bull, Blackwall, get to opening locks on all the cages you find. Sera, keep watch there -” he pointed to the far cave entrance. “Cole… go help. Try to keep people calm, if you can.”  
  
The party split up, moving into the adjoining small caves and finding several more rows of cages overcrowded with hungry young elves. 

“I am surprised at how little resistance we were met with.” Cassandra commented as she followed Leila through the winding tunnel to meet with Cullen’s troops.

“We weren’t expected.” Replied Leila, as though to say ‘I told you so’. Cassandra looked Leila over. She was still carrying the small crying boy, stroking his hair with one hand as she walked. She looked calm, determined, sad. Cassandra frowned. 

“I’m still not sure I should trust you.” Cassandra admitted, as Cullen’s troops became visible outside the tunnel entrance. “But I will admit that I was wrong to oppose this mission. Those people will have you to thank for their freedom, if nothing else.” 

“They'll have the Inquisition to thank,” replied Leila, "same as me." Cassandra was silent. 

\----

Debate as to how to handle the mission into Amandeus’ slave hold wasn’t the only pressing issue in Skyhold during the days leading up to the rescue. There was also the matter of what would happen to the apparently reformed prisoner afterwards, provided she followed through on her end and the mission went well. Though the sentiment was growing in Thedas that the Inquisition would let just about anyone join, there were still those within it with reservations where assassination and thievery were concerned. 

Josephine was diplomatic, allowing that the Inquisitor should hold a trial for the prisoner once the party returned, and that should he decide to sentence the girl to make up for her crimes by working for the Inquisition, it would seem as fair a sentence as any. Leliana, too, took a surprisingly forgiving stance on the girl’s fate. She and Cullen had argued the point in circles for the better part of an hour.

“She killed Inquisition troops! And put even more in danger by compromising our information! And you’re willing to overlook that? She killed your scouts.” Cullen had argued, passionately. 

“If she is responsible for all that she says she is - and it does seem that she has told us only the truth - then she is someone my people have been looking for for months.” Leliana had responded, “and now she is here. Fallen right into our laps and asking to help! It would be better to keep a person like that on our side, no?” 

Cassandra had, to her surprise, very nearly agreed with Leliana on that point. “I would not want her to be unguarded, but if Leliana thinks she has use of the spy, it may be best to let Leliana deal with her.” She had said. 

Cullen refused to consider the notion outright, and argued vehemently that he wouldn’t trust the woman who had brought about so much death and difficulty for the inquisition anywhere near his forces, no matter how useful the information she brought in proved to be. She hadn’t, he argued, even volunteered anything until her life was put in immediate danger. 

“The girl has no loyalty to us. No good will come of keeping her at Skyhold.” He had said with certainty. 

This stance made Cullen’s shock at seeing Leila unchained and carrying a confused, teary-eyed young boy all the more palpable. He was about to question Cassandra on the point of Leila’s uncuffed hands when Leila strode toward him and spoke. 

“The healing mages you have with you, do any of them speak Elvish?” She asked, in a concerned whisper. Cullen stared in disbelief. 

Cullen was leading a force of twenty soldiers and ten mages, all of whom had volunteered their help in this mission. Five large caravans stood ready to take on passengers and connect with one of Varric’s slave-liberating contacts in a predetermined location. Everything was tightly organised and being overseen by Leliana's best agents. The plan had been to quickly evacuate the slaves and embark before there was a chance they could be followed, and there was no time to deviate from that plan now. Cullen waved over a nearby elven mage, who confirmed that he did indeed speak the language, and Leila gently handed the boy over. 

“We were met with little resistance, but I fear if we are to fight our way further into the stronghold that there may be more. The Inquisitor is organising the evacuees, with luck, this will all go smoothly.” Reported Cassandra, briskly. 

“We should get back.” Said Leila.  
  
“You will stay here.” Cassandra retorted roughly. “Your part in this is done.”  
  
“Not yet it isn’t.” Leila replied with a fierce determination. Then, as she had done in Cullen’s office, the girl suddenly disappeared. Cullen and Cassandra blinked. 

“I’ll find her.” Vowed Cassandra. “Help these people.” 

\----

Cassandra ran back into the caves, passing by in a hurry as Inquisition soldiers helped guide those imprisoned carefully out toward the waiting caravans. She met up with the Inquisitor and his party just as they were finishing a final sweep of the caves. 

The caves were organized in a winding chain, connected by short tunnels, leading upward on a slow incline into the mountain range. At the exit of the last cave in the chain was a tunnelled-out stairway, leading steeply up. Leila had claimed in her debriefing that this stairway lead up to Amandeus’ temporary base, where he would be keeping himself, his best guard, and private documents detailing the sales plans for the captured slaves and anything else he was trading in the area. Leila also knew, from first hand experience, that he would have brought along a large chest of important personal possessions. She had not reported that fact. 

Cassandra rushed to the Inquisitor. 

“Inquisitor, the prisoner, she - she just disappeared.” Cassandra reported. The Inquisitor’s brow furrowed. 

“We don’t have time to search for her.” He said, the task at hand was more urgent. “The guards up there will have been alerted to our presence by now, we have to end this fight while we still have the upper hand. Maybe she saw her way out and decided to run after all, we can figure it out later.” 

“And if she attacks us?” Cassandra insisted. 

“Then we’ll deal with it. Now I need you and Bull to take the front line.” 

The Inquisitor’s plan of attack was straightforward. The stairway leading up to Amandeus’ base was narrow, with barely room to ascend two abreast. It wasn’t an ideal approach, but it did give them the advantage of being able to fully occupy the only way out of the base. Once at the top, the party’s goal would be to corner any guards and to keep the exit blocked. Cassandra and The Iron Bull took the lead, followed closely by Blackwall and the Inquisitor, and brought up in the rear by Sera, Varric and Cole. Sera and Varric set traps carefully behind them as they ascended, just in case.

It took several minutes of climbing steps before the party was even halfway to the top, and the stairs were beginning to get narrower and steeper as they climbed.  
  
“Fuck this slaver arsehole and his friggin’ stairs.” Complained Sera, sweating.  
  
“Couldn’t agree with you more.” Varric responded in a huff behind her, as his shorter legs had caused him to fall slightly behind. 

“Need me to carry you the rest of the way. Varric?” Iron Bull teased from the front of the line, where he was bounding up the steps three or four at a time. 

Varric muttered something under his breath. 

When the party finally reached the top of the staircase they were met with a large, sturdy, wooden door. Bull rammed himself into it with all his might, and broke through with a crash. A fireball erupted within the chamber in response, and the fighting began. 

\----

Any fight with mages is always a chaotic affair. Even just one mage can turn a simple battle into a minefield of obstacles if not taken out quickly. Now five stood ready to attack as the Inquisitor and his party broke through into the stronghold, alongside another three large warriors equipped much the same as the guards of the caves below. 

The Inquisitor was fast and defensive with his magic. He cast barriers and dispelled the effects of the enemy mages as quickly as he could. Alongside him, Cassandra used her Seeker abilities to block as much magic as she could, and her shield to block anything else. Bull and Varric teamed up to take down two mages, cornering them easily on the eastern side of the large room, which was cave-like in structure, but furnished in expensive Tevinter fashions. 

On the other side of the room, Sera and Blackwall made a game of the fight, enjoying it perhaps too much. 

Cole stayed hidden through most of the battle, making quick, unseen attacks at every opening. He was not, however, alone in this strategy. Leila’s ice magic froze one of the mages before he could see what hit him, and Bull shattered the mage with his axe, grinning, and without thinking to question where the spell had come from. 

The enemy mages seemed to specialize in fire spells. Fireballs and flaming weapons lit up the cavernous room, and smoke soon filled the air as the expensive furs and heavy old books furnishing the room became casualties to the fighting. Inquisitor Lavellan and his companions were becoming rather experienced in fire fights, but even so, they suffered damages before the fight was over. 

“Is that all of them?” Sera asked breathlessly as the last guard fell. 

Leila appeared then, emerging from her spell of invisibility. “No,” She said, causing Sera to jump in alarm. 

“You!-” Cassandra began furiously. Leila held up a hand. 

“Through there.” She pointed at the far wall, there was a thin line in the rock, visible only to those who knew where to look. A nearby statue acted as a switch to open up this secret door. It was a feature of the cave which had existed before Amandeus had taken up residence in it, and one of the things that had attracted him to that particular place. Leila flipped the statue down. 

The cave opened up to reveal its hidden room, another cave-like space, though clearly not a natural feature of the mountain. It was a smaller room, oval in shape with low ceilings and bare walls. There were no furnishings in this room, save for a bloody altar at one end, over which a tall cloaked man was hunched, muttering spells in ancient Tevene. The man fell silent as the door opened, and turned to face his attackers. 

He was pale, his skin thin and wrinkled, and a receding dark hairline was just visible beneath his pointed hood. His thin lips formed a disgusted sneer and his eyes were sunken and bloodshot; thin red veins surrounded them like spiderwebs. The pupils of the mages eyes seemed almost to glow with red light. He held an ornate iron staff in his left hand, and a long ceremonial knife in his right. The knife was dripping with blood. 

“So,” hissed Amandeus, his red eyes fixed on Leila, “you’re not dead.” 

“No,” she replied, her voice shaking slightly, “but you are.”

With that she sent forth a barrage of sharp ice shards, they flew toward the blood mage like a hail of arrows. He held up the iron staff and easily waved the flying ice aside, dismissive. The heavy shards of ice shattered against the cave floor. Then, with a flick of his other wrist, he pointed the dripping dagger at Leila. 

Instinctively, Taren threw up a barrier around her, and as he did, the girl screamed. A hand shot to the back of her neck, and her eyes shuttered tight. 

The Iron Bull charged at the mage, and as he did so, three lesser shade demons rose up around him. Leila fell to her knees, still clutching her neck, while the others charged into the fight, felling the demons one by one. Yet, the blood mage seemed to be able always to conjure up more. The Inquisitor and Cassandra worked together to break through the blood mage’s barrier while the others battled through the unending stream of demons. 

When Amandeus’ barrier finally broke, he retaliated with a lightning spell which struck the Inquisitor head on, with shocks reflecting on the rest of the party as the Inquisitor fell to his knees with a sharp cry. 

“Inquisitor!” Shouted Cassandra, seeing him fall. She charged at the mage, and was stunned by a spell, frozen in place before she could counter it. 

The mage placed his right hand, still holding the knife, directly into the pool of blood atop his altar. He said a few words of ancient Tevene, and the fallen mages from the room behind rose again to attack. Varric and Sera suddenly had their hands full, fighting off the risen dead, while Bull, Cole and Blackwall battled against two more rage demons which had appeared in front of the mage. Everything seemed to be happening at once. Cassandra recovered from the stun spell and joined Varric and Sera in fighting off the undead, while the Inquisitor recovered well enough to begin casting protective barriers over his companions again. Still, Leila was hunched on the ground, her eyes closed and her breath heaving.

“You will heed me, my little pet!” Amandeus cried out, looking at the girl with fury across all the corners of his face. "You always do." He thrust his staff toward the cave floor, seeming to make the whole mountain shudder. The Inquisitor's barrier around Leila faltered. 

A thin smile spread across the mage's face as blood from the altar rose around him, and seemed to form strings in the air. The whisps of blood flew around Leila's head, circling like snakes toward the back of her neck, and her face went momentarily blank. 

“Not…” Leila struggled to speak through clenched teeth, “this…” Taren attempted to dispel the blood control Amandeus was casting over her, the whisps of red shuddered, but didn't break their hold. “time!” Leila shouted, defiant, as she took advantage of the Inquisitor’s interruption. Leila coupled the Inquisitor’s dispelling with a burst of her own energy. The haze of red forming over her eyes dissipated, and she stared the blood mage down with hate filled eyes.

Leila sprinted directly toward Amandeus, reaching him before he could thwart her with another spell, and grabbed hold of his wrists. Taren aimed a careful bolt of energy at Amandeus’ legs as Leila wrestled with him, and the mage fell backward with her on top. Leila took the opportunity to pry the ceremonial knife out of Amandeus’ clutches, and stabbed him with it through his throat. Suddenly, the struggling bodies of the unnaturally risen mages fell back to the ground in heaps, and the earth felt still again. 

Leila was hunched over the body of Amandeus, his bloody knife still clenched tightly in her fist. His blood dripped off of it onto the cave floor, her hair parted over the brand on her neck, and the inquisitor and his party stood and witnessed, mouths open, the trail of whisping tendrils of blood floating away from the glowing red symbol emblazoned on her skin. She stood, breathing heavily, and dropped the knife. It clattered loudly on the stone floor. Behind her, the Inquisitor and his other companions were watching her intently, weapons still drawn. 

Leila raised her bloodied hands above her head in surrender, and without looking up from the dead slavemaster’s face, spoke to the speechless party behind.  
  
“Go ahead,” she said, “cuff me.” 

Cassandra tied Leila’s hands behind her back with a leather belt, and following the Inquisitor’s lead, pulled her back toward the stairwell to exit the stronghold.

“Mage or no, so far I sorta like her.” Sera commented in a hushed tone to Blackwall. She was admiring Leila's handiwork on the blood mage’s throat.

Blackwall grunted in response. “I don’t know, anyone that bastard called “pet” can’t possibly be all right.” He muttered. 

As the party passed through the slaver’s main room, Leila’s eyes landed on Amandeus’ personal chest. 

“Wait,” she called to the Inquisitor. 

He looked back at her curiously. 

Leila nodded her head toward the chest. “Take everything.” She said. 

“She’s got a point: loot.” Said Sera, making quick work of the chest’s lock and beginning to rummage through it’s contents before the Inquisitor had a chance to respond. She pulled out various documents and passed them off to the Inquisitor. “Spy stuff,” she said, identifying them casually. She then pulled out a sack of coin and passed it off as well. “Good stuff,” she remarked as she did so, and then, from the bottom of the chest, Sera pulled out a set of six strange vials, which sat in an ornate holder that seemed to have been specially made to contain them. Inside five of the vials was what looked like dried blood, stuck to the bottoms and flaking off the sides. In the sixth, the red substance swirled and glowed. “The hell is this shite?” Sera remarked, holding it up and away from herself. 

“They look almost like phylacteries… the mages?” Cassandra commented, taking the set of vials from Sera. “They go dry like this when a mage dies.” She said. “And this one, the way it’s glowing -” 

“It’s mine.” Offered Leila, beside her. “So no need for keeping me bound up, right?” 

Cassandra grunted at that. “For now, you’re staying right where I can see you.” She said.

\----

Back at Skyhold Leila was once again confined to a guarded room, but word of the events of the Inquisitor’s latest mission spread quickly, and curiosity about the former slave being held prisoner was growing. The advisors met in the war room to address the aftermath of their successful rescue.

Ravens began to come for Leliana reporting the safe return of elves to their clans, or to otherwise safe havens, and the Inquisition was close to locating all of the Venatori masters who had sent word of their slave buying intentions to Amandeus. Cullen's troops and Leliana's counter agents were set to make short work of them. Things had turned out well, and it was becoming time for the Inquisition to direct its attention to other issues. Only one issue remained: what to do with Leila. 

“Whatever else she is, she was honest in this matter.” Cullen stated, “and despite my fears, she did not betray us.” 

“You think I should let her join?” The Inquisitor was surprised.

“I did not say that.” Cullen replied.

“She has said she wishes to help, and so far she has done so.” Josephine noted. “I have not spoken to her much, but I do believe she means well, and the Inquisition has always been open to those who wish to offer it aid.” 

“I am not saying we should trust her,” Cullen began, “but even I have to admit that sentencing her to die for her crimes now would be cruel and unjust.” 

“In my experience, people are often more than their past indiscretions. And, in this case, the man truly responsible is already dead - by her hand.” Leliana advised in Leila’s favour as well. 

The Inquisitor nodded. “I think I’ll speak to her,” he said, “but if she truly wants to join the Inquisition I believe she should be allowed to. She fights well, and we could use all the help we can get.” 

The advisors took his decision well enough, and he adjourned the meeting. 

\----

Outside the war room, Dorian waited to meet with Josephine to officialize his return. He had returned from his trip several days early, and that likely meant paperwork. Taren walked out through the war room doors, and seeing Dorian leaning in perfectly styled nonchalance against the wall, could not help but smile.

“You're back early.” Taren remarked in surprise. 

“Oh you know how it is, I just couldn't stay away. Miss me?” Dorian asked with a wink. 

Taren smiled, wordlessly beckoning Dorian to walk with him. Taren led the way out into Skyhold’s garden. “How was your trip?” Taren asked as they walked. 

“How was _my_ trip? Inquisitor, do not be coy with me. I have ears, and there are _rumours_ about. My trip was fine, and terribly uninteresting, so now you tell me about whatever great and important things have been going on here in my absence.” 

Now outside, Taren leaned his elbows on the stone wall surrounding the garden and looked out over it, his red hair shining in the sunlight. Dorian leaned back against the wall, watching him. 

“We freed some slaves destined for Venatori blood rituals.” Taren said simply. 

“See, now that is exciting! How many? Did you stop the ritual? Did you bring me back a souvenir?” 

“About a hundred. It was... awful, honestly.” Taren admitted with a slight frown, “but I believe we’ve thwarted this particular Venatori plot. For now, at least.” He said, answering the first two of Dorian’s questions. “As for souvenirs… one of the former slaves is locked up in a room on the third floor.” 

“That’s not funny.” Dorian responded seriously.  
  
Taren laughed, “she’s here as a prisoner, not a slave, and maybe not even as that for much longer.” He explained. “I was actually about to go speak with her. She wants to join the Inquisition.”

“You’re letting your prisoners join now?” 

“Well, without her we would never have known about the operation in time. She helped to thwart a major Venatori plot, save a lot of lives, and she's revealed names of many of the unknown agents working against us.”

“So why is she in prison?” Dorian asked, thoroughly intrigued. 

“Because she tried to kill Cullen.”  
  
Dorian let out a short laugh. “Ah,” he said, “that would do it.” He shook his head. “Why does everything interesting have to happen without me?” He pouted. 

“Not everything,” Taren said, looking Dorian in the eye. 

“Careful who you flirt with, Inquisitor, people could get all sorts of ideas.” Dorian replied, smirking lightly and enjoying himself a little too much. Taren shifted his body slightly closer to Dorian’s, and the two stood that way in silence for a moment, pulled together. 

“Well, I suppose I should let you get back to work.” Dorian said finally. He seemed almost flustered, which meant that he was, in fact, entirely flustered and hiding it well.

Taren sighed. “I suppose I do have a number of things to take care of.” He admitted. “there is one thing I did want to ask you about, however.” He began getting back to business, breaking the moment entirely. “This crest, do you recognize it?” Taren pulled a scrap of leather from a pocket in his vest, branded into it was the same symbol he had seen branded into Leila’s skin. The leather had been taken from the hood of Amandeus’ cloak, but Leliana had found no other symbols like it in her research on Tevinter family crests. It appeared to be a coat of arms, but instead of swords over a shield were two snakes, facing each other, their tongues out, wrapped around a stylized sun - the universal symbol of the Chantry. 

Dorian examined it closely. ‘I’ve never seen it before,” he said, handing the scrap of leather back to the Inquisitor, “but it does seem very _Venatori._ ” He remarked, “very much in line with their whole High Tevinter aesthetic, you know? Personally I think it’s rather gaudy - snakes devouring the Chantry is it? Honestly, it’s a bit on the nose.” 

Taren chuckled lightly. “But it doesn’t mean anything?”  
  
“Other than that Venatori have an inflated sense of self-importance?”  
  
“I mean, you’ve never seen something like this used in any spell - blood magic, for example?”

Dorian feigned offense, “why? Because I’m Tevinter I must have all sorts of experience with that? We’re not _all_ blood mages, you know.”

“I didn’t mean -” Taren began, apologetic. Dorian laughed

“What are you worried about, exactly?” Dorian asked, slightly more serious now. 

“The prisoner, she was branded with it, and in the mage’s stronghold we were attacked by several other mages under his command with this same brand.” Taren explained. "And, well, he seemed to be using it on her - trying to control her. He is dead now, but if this ritual is something… something that other Venatori could know…" He was asking how those events were connected, if keeping such a mage around was safe, Dorian realised. 

“Oh.” Said Dorian. It was an unhappy sound. 

“Oh?” 

Dorian looked deeply uncomfortable. “Branding isn’t...directly connected to blood magic.” He said, slowly, “though I have heard stories, rumours that there are Magisters who experimented with lyrium branding…” He trailed off. 

The Inquisitor prompted him to continue.

“You have to understand, the entire concept of slavery is of course an abhorrent practice, but for most slaves in Tevinter the situation isn’t so different from that of servants here. You never see such outright cruel treatment, you only ever _hear_ about it. I’ve never seen any slave that was branded.”

“Well, if the symbol itself is not for magic, obviously it’s a form of torture.”

“Right. And again, torture really isn’t _common._ Despite what everyone in the South seems to think. I’ve heard stories of slaves being branded as part of blood magic rituals - torture, pain, it makes the magic stronger, you see? But they were stories only. There’s no magic I know of that works even after the caster has died - not even blood magic, and the brand itself shouldn’t be magical.” Dorian finished. 

Taren looked thoughtful. “I suppose that’s good news.” He said finally.  
  
“Happy to help.” Replied Dorian, though he didn’t sound particularly happy. “I must say you keep interesting company,” Dorian commented on a lighter note, “present included, of course.” 

“Then perhaps I should keep you company more often.” Taren replied with a crooked smile. 

Dorian grinned. “I look forward to it.” He said.


	3. Somewhere New

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this edition of self-indulgent fanfic we're getting expositional confessions and a cute gay splash fight. What more could you ask for?

Taren was looking for Leila. Between all his other work, the Inquisitor made a habit of checking in on his companions whenever he could. This meant something different to each of them; the occasional drink with The Iron Bull and his chargers, a moment to talk with Cassandra, a game of darts with Sera, even the occasional philosophical conversation with Solas - though most times he found Solas sleeping, or meditating, or painting, and not wanting to be disturbed.

It hadn't come without effort, but Inquisitor Lavellan was well-liked in Skyhold; respected by all and friendly with at least a few members of his inner circle. The latter was more a product of what Sera called his “being like a person”, rather than a walking title. Taren was concerned, not just for the state of his troops and the progress his organization was making, but on an individual level, for the people who followed him. And today, he was concerned about Leila. 

Since the girl had been made a full member of the Inquisition, things had remained relatively calm at Skyhold. The Inquisition was cleaning up the aftermath of the fighting in the Hinterlands, and Taren was concentrating his efforts on closing rifts as they were discovered. Being seen in action, helping refugees and fighting off the demons which had invaded the farms around Redcliffe, that was his primary focus. He was making the Inquisition’s might known, this was what was needed now in order to gain the kind of influence he would need to fight the battles ahead. 

Leila had come along on the Inquisitor's excursions into the wilderness as often as she could, seeming to enjoy both the camping and demon-killing aspects of belonging to the Inquisition. She was vocal too, engaging in banter with the other companions who accompanied Taren on these trips; she and Bull seemed to get along well, comparing their kill counts after facing down a rift or gang of bandits, and Sera quickly found that Leila was remarkably likely to laugh at her crude jokes. Still, Taren’s companions mainly kept their distance from actually engaging in conversation with the new addition to their team, and she wasn’t endeavouring to bond with any of them, either. 

During the time she spent within Skyhold’s walls, Leila kept to herself. While the grounds were free for all to explore, she spent much of her time alone in either her room or in a dark corner of the tavern. Taren wanted to make sure that she was settling in comfortably, but the fact that he could not seem to locate her on this morning was not giving him confidence that this was the case. 

After making a tour of the fortress, Taren approached the invariably gruff form of the Warden Blackwall, who was working in his usual place next to the stables.

“Inquisitor,” Blackwall acknowledged Taren’s approach, “can I help you with something?”

“I’m looking for Leila, if you’ve seen her.” Blackwall's face turned even gruffer than usual at the mention of the young woman's name. 

“That new recruit of yours? I saw her by the stables earlier, admiring the horses I suppose. I didn’t speak with her, though, and that was hours ago now.” He said plainly, sounding unimpressed. 

“Do you have concerns about her?” The Warden might have had a tough exterior, but it wasn't like him to sound so unfriendly. 

Blackwall grunted. “Not my place to say. She fights well enough, but I’d still watch your back if I were you. She headed down that way, last I recall.” Blackwall pointed toward the steps down to Skyhold’s dungeon, the last place Taren would have thought to look for her. 

\----

Yet there he found her, sitting on the edge of the dungeon’s sharp drop off, staring out at the waterfall and looking contemplative.

“I would have thought you’d be sick of this place by now.” Taren commented, coming up behind her. 

Leila turned her head in surprise, and seeing the Inquisitor she made to stand up. Taren held up a hand, indicating that she should stay, and took a seat beside her instead. 

“Why come back down here? Didn’t get your fill of dungeon yet?”

Leila shrugged, looking back out at the waterfall. “I’ve stayed worse places for longer. The view is actually really lovely. And it’s quiet.” 

Taren produced a small vial of glowing red liquid from his pocket. “I thought you should have this back.” He said, offering the phylactery out to her. 

Leila took it and gingerly turned it over in her hands, observing the slow-swirling enchanted blood inside. “Thank you.” She said, “I didn’t expect it back.” 

“The mages are our allies. We don’t keep our allies on leashes.” Taren replied. Many of the mages had destroyed their phylacteries upon joining the Inquisition, though many still more had none to speak of - still in a vault somewhere, or else destroyed already. 

“Not even former enemies?” 

“It’s yours.” Said Taren, in firm answer. “Are you having any trouble settling in?” He asked, changing the subject.  
  
Leila shook her head. “I’m glad you’re giving me a chance here.” She looked at Taren, uncertainty in her eyes. “I’ve wanted to thank you, Inquisitor, for everything you’ve done.” 

“The Inquisition has you to thank for a great deal - the information you provided us has been very useful." He said, businesslike, but with kindness. "So, it appears our partnership has been mutually beneficial.” Taren gave her a small smile. 

Leila nodded. “I’ve also wanted to apologize. For attacking your people, your commander…”

“Those weren’t your choices.” Said Taren. He knew what losses had been suffered at her hand, but he had seen the blood mage, too, seen her kill him. As far as he was concerned, that debt was paid. 

“Even so, I should have done more, sooner. I’m not sure how to make up for that, but like I said, I am glad you’ve given me the chance.” Her face was troubled.  
  
“No one blames you for surviving.” He told her.   
  
“Your Commander does. I’ve heard his soldiers whispering. They really don’t like me.” Leila's tone was unaffected, but Taren had heard his own share of whispers at his back, and his brow furrowed.

“They didn’t like me at first, either. You know, I met Cassandra pretty much the same way you did, back at Haven.” Taren leaned back. 

“I heard about that,” Leila recalled, “they thought you caused the explosion at the conclave. You know, even now a lot of people still think you’re a puppet for the Chantry. Or the opposite, some kind of dangerous heretic.” 

Taren nodded solemnly. 

“But you’re not, and you didn’t. It’s different.” The troubled expression was still on her face. 

“Still, I've had to earn trust through action." He said, his advice honest, he smiled warmly. "You can do the same.” 

Leila thought in silence for a moment. “I suppose I should apologize to Cullen.” She said, finally. 

Taren let out a short laugh. It was remarkably easy to forget that she had stabbed his Commander, now that all that pride and anger was replaced with uncertainty and apologies. “It couldn’t hurt.” He said. 

They sat watching the waterfall in silence for another few moments, both thinking.

“Can I ask you something?” Taren broke the silence. “About your life before you were…”

“Before I was Amandeus’ slave?” Leila finished the question for him. He didn't like the word, and he could tell from the way she said it that it bit at her too, but there it was. “Doesn’t your spymaster know everything there is to know? I’m sure she keeps you informed.” A little of that anger was dripping back into her voice. He felt guilty for the question, but the girl was still largely a mystery - good intentions or not. 

“She told me you were from Ferelden, originally, and that you were a thief in Orlais.” Taren admitted, “a bard?” 

Leila shook her head. “No, not a bard, just a regular bandit. I ran with some bards for a while, though.”  
  
“So how did you... end up with a Tevinter Magister? I thought most slaves either were born there or kidnapped as young, well, elves. Not human Ferelden mages.” Taren asked, trying not to be overly blunt, and failing. 

“It’s a long story.” Leila responded reluctantly. 

“I have some time.” 

“The short answer is that I was sold out. A bard in Orlais told Amandeus about me; this thief he knew who fought with daggers but was secretly a mage. Set me up on a fake job. He got a sack of gold, and Amandeus’ men captured me. You know the rest.” She shrugged, looking away from him and out at the water. 

“You kept your magic hidden when you were in Orlais?” 

“Before Orlais I was in Kirkwall, briefly, and it wasn’t really safe being a mage there. Besides, I didn’t know much about magic, how to use it... I was always better at fighting with daggers and the rest I picked up as I went. Having a sort of ‘secret weapon’ became useful, too.” She shrugged again. “It was Amandeus who actually… taught me a fair bit of what I know now. I was sort of a project for him.” She grimaced. 

“You were his pupil?” Taren was surprised. He knew that the slaver had kept her prisoner, leashed by her phylactery and forced into working as a thief and agent for his interests, sometimes through blood magic. She hadn't been able to explain much more, and he hadn't pushed for it. The events she confessed to lined up with Leliana's documents, and the brand on her neck and near-hundred saved lives were evidence enough of her other claims. 

“No, I wouldn’t go that far. But, I was an investment. He spent a great deal of time and effort trying to get me to comply with his commands. And when he used me to..." She paused, as she often had when he and Leliana had come to her with questions about her work for the slaver. He waited. "Well, I picked up a few new skills." She shrugged again, still looking away. "He was very interested in keeping me as his own sort of secret weapon - the mage who didn’t look like a mage. But without a staff all magic takes more effort, more focus. Besides getting me to do what he wanted, he also worked very hard to… train that focus.” 

“How?” He asked, sensitivity still failing him.  
  
“I’d rather not get into it, if it’s all the same to you.” 

“Of course, I’m sorry.” Taren apologised. “The other mages we fought at his compound, were they like you?”  
  
“You mean slaves?” 

Taren nodded. 

“Yes... and no. The mages we fought at his base had all been with him much longer, I don’t know how many years it took to get that way, but they weren't really people any more. They were his pets, and totally devoted to him.” She shuddered.

“So he corrupted them using that...the spell he attempted on you, the blood ritual?” 

Leila shifted, one hand tousled her hair, and rested for one ginger moment over her neck. “Cruelty begets loyalty if you do it right. The blood magic, the way he could...command, that was only part of it.” Leila said, a hint of sadness in her voice.

“That’s awful.” Taren said. He meant it.  
  
“It was.” Leila agreed. “But now Amandeus is dead, and I'm here. Even if no one trusts me, it's something.” She forced a smile. 

Taren was quiet again. 

“Anyway, it doesn’t all have to be so serious, right?" The energy was forced, but the sentiment behind it was real. "Working for the good guys for once feels good.” Leila concluded.

Taren smiled a very small smile. “Good.” He said. 

\----

Leila was pacing in front of the door to Cullen’s office. She turned the phylactery over in her hand. She took a deep breath and a few steps toward the door, then she turned around and resumed pacing. 

“Here, you keep it, you’re the Templar.” She rehearsed in a plucky, almost confident tone. She sighed. “No.”

“An offering of peace, for that time I stabbed you.” She tried again, to herself. Another sigh. “Definitely not.”

“So, Cullen, I know you aren’t a Templar anymore but I thought maybe you’d like to hold on to this just for old time’s sake and also maybe it will make you less prone to want to kill me?” She laughed at herself, then sighed again. “Here goes.” 

Leila took three long strides up to the door to Cullen’s office, took another deep breath, and knocked. 

“Come in,” she heard Cullen’s voice command through the door. She pushed it open and stood just inside the doorway. “Oh, it’s you. I wasn’t expecting you.” Said Cullen, eyeing her with suspicion. 

“Right, well, I thought it was time I came… and… well,” Leila marched quickly up to Cullen’s desk and placed the phylactery down on top of it. “I’m sorry I attacked you, and I thought you should have this.”  
  
Cullen held up the phylactery, inspecting it. “Is this your phylactery?” He asked, confused. 

“Yes. I was going to destroy it, but I didn’t. You can have it, if it helps.” 

“If it helps… with what?” 

“If it helps you to not hate me. You can hold the leash. Templars like that.” She said, taking a quick step back again. 

“Maker, I don’t hate you. I don’t even know you. You just - you attacked me! How else was I supposed to respond?” Cullen was either offended or embarrassed, possibly both, Leila couldn’t be sure. “And I’m not a Templar any longer.” 

Leila crossed her arms. “I just thought you might want it.” 

Cullen sighed. “Thank you for the gesture,” he said cordially, pushing the phylactery toward her, “and the apology.” A pause. “I am sorry as well,” he admitted, “I judged you too quickly. I was wrong to call for your execution. You have shown us support, brought us information that has saved many lives, and the Inquisition thanks you for it. You are owed that much, at least.” He extended a hand, and Leila shook it firmly. 

“I’m glad to be able to help.” She said.

Leila turned to leave, leaving the phylactery on the desk, anyway. It was what she had come to do. But halfway to the door something stopped her. An old anger was rising with nowhere to go. She turned. 

“You know, I knew who you were.” She said, “but I expected you to be different.” The old anger mingled with regret, she sounded apologetic. “I hated you.” She said. 

“Sorry to disappoint.” Said Cullen, with a rare smirk. 

“You were in Ferelden,” Leila continued, “in the circle there.”

“I was, but that was a long time ago.” Cullen replied. 

“I remember, I was there too.” Leila said. Cullen’s face fell. He looked at Leila, and then down to her phylactery. Leila went on, “Everything fell apart, I don’t really remember how, but I remember a lot of mages died; there were demons and Templars and mages all fighting, and then it was over.”

“The Hero of Ferelden,” offered Cullen, “she stopped it.” 

Leila nodded. “Afterward there were rumours about you, you know? The apprentices were all scared of you. Even the older mages were worried. They said you wanted to kill us all, that even after the circle was restored you were trying to convince Greagoir to use the rite of annulment. You were like a ghost story, you were the monster who was going to come and kill us in our sleep.”

Cullen stared at Leila in silence, both of them already knowing where this story was headed. 

“And then you did.” She said, the anger flaring up as she spoke. “You killed three mages before Greagoir sent you away.”

“I - it was a long time ago, I was-” Cullen began to speak, his voice defensive and full of regret. Leila cut him off.

“- No one felt safe after that, not with the Blight coming.” She told him, eyes piercing. “The circle was sending mages to fight in the war, and they weren’t going to come back. Irving was going too, and the Templars were going to be in charge of the tower. Everyone was saying that the Templars hated us, that they’d kill us all as soon as Irving was gone. Or if they didn’t, the Blight would.”

Cullen looked at her, speechless, remembering. 

“So, many of us left.” Leila said, staring him down, needing him to know something that even she had long repressed. “Some mages were escaping, fleeing the Blight, taking the youngest apprentices with them to try to save them,” Leila continued, “we went to Kirkwall with the other refugees, we didn’t know. But when we got there one of the mages went to the circle to ask for help, and the Knight Commander called her an apostate and made her tranquil. There were so many rumours. Abuses in the Circle, fleeing mages who were never heard from again. Templars patrolled the streets, any apostates in the city were tracked down and made tranquil or killed.” Leila said, anger still in her voice. “We had to go into hiding, living in the streets, always on the run from the Templars and our old Ferelden bogeyman - because there you were: Knight Captain Cullen.”

Cullen’s face was pained. “I was wrong to hate mages as I did. I regret the man I was then every day, believe me,” he straightened his posture, “but I am not that man anymore.”

“No, I suppose you aren’t.” Leila said, in a tone that was almost disappointed. "I'm not the same scared girl, either.” She sighed, “all those years running from you Templars, and now: here you are. I hated you, hated all the Templars, and you... _Knight Captain Cullen_ ; all those ghost stories. And then you caught me,” she let out a short laugh, “and you didn’t kill me.”

“I wanted to have you executed.” Cullen pointed out.

Leila shook her head. “You could have killed me when I attacked you, you were winning that fight. But you didn’t, you gave me a chance. The Templar I thought you were would not have done that.”

Cullen was quiet for a moment, taking all this new information in. A look of realization spread over his face. “You’re saying that you fled to Orlais because it wasn't safe for mages in Kirkwall, that you were sold into slavery... because of my actions.” 

“No,” Leila stopped him, adamant. “If you weren’t in Kirkwall, another Templar would have been. All the Templars were scared, abusing their power, abusing the mages.” 

“You would never have even been in Kirkwall if it weren't for my actions. The order should have been a force of good, a protector of the people.”

Leila shook her head again. “It was always going to fall apart. And people were always going to get caught in the crossfire when it did. You didn't drive me to Kirkwall, or to Orlais, and you didn't sell me out to Amandeus.” She paused, “somewhere out there is another man who is to blame for that. That is not on you.” 

Cullen frowned, unconvinced. “Even so,” He said, “I am sorry for my part in what happened to you, for all the pain the order caused.” 

Leila took the apology in. She wanted to let it heal something, to be able to savour this one eventual shred of light from a dark past. She couldn't. 

“You have a very different reputation now, Commander. The mages here don’t fear you, and I even heard that you fought against Knight Commander Meredith in the end.” Her anger was not for Cullen, not anymore. That much at least was honest. Yet it sank into her stomach still, ready to gnaw at her from the inside, now that she had let it out.

Cullen sighed. “In the end.” He said, sadly. “But you don’t need to give me this,” he held out the phylactery. “I’m not a Templar, and the Inquisition isn’t keeping the phylacteries of its mages.”

“No, keep it.” Said Leila, “even if the order is gone, you’ll always be a Templar.”

“I’m not -”  
  
“- And you don’t trust me. And I don’t blame you, I did stab you.”  
  
“Was that because you hated me?” Cullen implored, going out on a limb.

Leila laughed that hesitant laugh again. "No, that was just so that you couldn’t stab me first.” She said. “I don’t exactly have the cleanest record,” she went on more seriously, “oath or not, you can’t pretend that my being here doesn’t concern you. So keep it.”

With that, she turned and left the office, leaving Cullen standing at his desk, looking a little stunned, with her phylactery in hand. 

\----

Leila was drinking alone at the bar of the tavern. Apologizing to Cullen, retelling the tale of her various exoduses from one broken place to the next, it had all taken a lot out of her. That sinking feeling in her stomach seemed to drink up the alcohol, and so she fed it. The ale was bitter and strong and numbing her mind of the memories that she had never planned to so vocally dig up. She drank it quickly, and ordered another pint. On starting her third pint, she noticed someone had come to sit beside her, though she didn’t remember noticing him arrive. 

“Hello.” Said Cole

“Um, hello.” Leila replied. 

“I’m Cole.”

“Leila. We’ve uh, met before though, haven’t we? You’re the ghost kid from my cell. The Inquisitor said that you fight with the Inquisition.” 

“Yes.” Said Cole. 

Leila went back to her drink. 

“How are you doing that?” Cole asked, a few minutes later. 

“What? Drinking?” 

Cole shook his head. “You’re happy and sad at the same time.” He said. 

“Everyone does that.” Leila replied, taking another swig of ale. 

“Not like you. People wear masks of happiness so other people won’t see them hurt, but you hide the hurting from yourself, too. It talks to you, your hurt is loud, but you make it quiet.”

“Ah,” said Leila, “yes. Drinking.” 

Cole was looking at her with wide, intense eyes. She tried to ignore it. 

“But the happy part is real, too. It’s small, but not a mask.”

“Yeah? That’s good to hear.” Leila said.

And she might have said more, and it might have helped, but the next morning she did not remember. 

\----

  
  


When Taren next saw Cullen, it was to discuss a quest to the Fallow Mire. They spoke a few minutes, ensuring that everything was in order, before Taren had a chance to ask about any of Cullen’s personal concerns. Taren always made a point to be friendly with the commander, to offer him relief from his duties in the form of conversation or a game of chess, but he wasn’t sure that Cullen truly saw him as a friend. Cullen was a military man, and the Inquisitor was his superior officer, it couldn’t be helped. Still, Taren wanted to know if Cullen’s family was safe, if he was having difficulties with lyrium withdrawal, if he had any other concerns for Taren’s attention. He was about to ask any one of those questions when a vial of red liquid on Cullen’s bookshelf caught his eye. 

“Is that Leila’s phylactery?” He asked, surprised. 

Cullen looked too, and nodded. “She came by to give it to me the other day,” he said, “a gesture of good faith, apparently.” 

“Ah,” Said Taren, “I suppose that’s good, then.” 

“She thought I hated her.” Cullen admitted. 

“Didn’t you?” Taren asked, looking slightly amused. 

“I hated being stabbed in my own office.” Cullen sighed. “She’s been helpful. I misjudged her.” He said. 

“But you’re keeping the phylactery. You don’t trust her.” Taren said. He'd expected that she would simply destroy it.

“I just didn’t know what to do with it.” Cullen said, “so I put it there, for now. I find it reminds me of my purpose.” 

“Your purpose?” 

“As a Templar I was supposed to protect mages, but in the end the order really did the opposite.” 

Taren watched the Commander's expression closely, he didn't know a great deal about his Commander's Templar past. “But you aren’t a Templar, now.” He reasoned. 

“No, but even so, that duty remains.” He paused, turning to look at Taren, “you know she knew me?” 

“She mentioned that she was in Kirkwall for a time.” Taren replied. 

Cullen shook his head. “Not just in Kirkwall. She knew me before that, in the Ferelden circle. She was with some of the mages that fled after the circle fell.” He sighed. “After what Uldred’s blood magic did to me I hated all mages, and I carried that hatred with me for a long time. She saw that, all of it. In Ferelden, in Kirkwall. She knew who I was, the things I did. I was sworn to protect the mages in the Ferelden circle, and in Kirkwall, but I failed them. Failed her.”

“You can’t blame yourself for everything. What happened in Kirkwall wasn’t your fault.” He said, reassuring because he knew this at least to be true. Taren remembered the effect of Kirkwall's fall even on his own clan, the spiral of events that had led him to the Inquisition, too. It's cause was something he had studied. 

“But what if what happened to her is? If I had been a better Templar, if I hadn’t been so full of fear and hate, maybe things would have been different.”

“You don’t know that.” Taren said, “and surely she doesn’t believe that. If she did, I'm not sure she would still be here.” 

“I still feel responsible.” Cullen replied. “I knew I had failed in protecting the mages under my care as a Templar, but seeing the result of that here, now…” He looked up at the phylactery. “I will not let it happen again.” He said, and there was a fierceness in his voice. 

\----

“Venhedis! Fasta vass!” Dorian flipped frantically through the pages of the large tome he was reading, then slammed the book shut and put it down on the pile in front of him with a thud. “Damn those pompous Archons, it should be in this volume!”

The Inquisitor, walking in on the scene, did his best to look unamused. “What should?”

Dorian looked up, still rummaging through notes. “Writings of Adralla, but she’s been left out of every Tevinter compendium I can find in this place.” He was frustrated, and his hands bounced and waved restlessly as he spoke.

“I’m taking a party to the Forbidden Oasis to investigate a ruined temple,” began the Inquisitor, “come out with me.” He said, invitingly. 

Dorian stood and took a few paces from his work, toward the Inquisitor. “So I can get sand in my every garment? Such an enjoyable offer.” He joked dryly. 

The Inquisitor shrugged. “Could have time to go swimming. We found a beautiful spot recently.”

“Tempting, but you have plenty of people capable of fighting some stray spirits. Fearsome as I may be in battle, this research needs me.”

“That research is driving you mad. I think you could use a good fight.” The Inquisitor noted playfully. 

Dorian sighed. “Perhaps you have a point. Though it may not be a fight I need…” his pitch lowered to one of dramatic flirtation. 

Taren blushed, and chuckled amiably. “We leave in an hour.” He said, turning to go.  
  
“Fine, I’ll come, but you have to promise me one full hour of lounging by this pool you’ve found. And that you’ll take your shirt off.” Dorian called after him, a grin on his face. 

Taren shook his head as he left, not turning back, as his cheeks reddened until they were almost matching his hair. 

  
  


\----

In the Forbidden Oaisis, the Inquisitor and his party infiltrated the temple and fought off various beasts, bringing back spoils of found artefacts and newly discovered materials. The work was, as Taren had predicted, perfectly distracting, and now that it was done, Dorian was properly enjoying what felt like a well-earned rest in the sun. He stretched out on a patch of sand by the waters, partially shaded by the draping tree branches which hung over the clear pool just out of reach of his feet. A short distance away, her pant legs rolled up and her feet dipping into the water, Leila sat atop a short length of ruined stone wall, reading a book. Meanwhile, both the Inquisitor and the Iron Bull had chosen to take the day off with a dive into the water itself. 

Dorian was in bliss, looking out at them lazily with one opened eye. The Iron Bull was, of course, always a sight. And always shirtless. But he wasn’t always _wet_ , or, well, _glistening._ And whether or not it was an intentional answer to their earlier conversation, there was the Inquisitor in little but his undergarments. The Inquisitor waded and gracefully swam about, obliviously enjoying the beauty of his scenery and the coolness of the pool, looking stunning in the sunlight that sparkled around him off the water. 

Dorian made to call out some suggestive comment, but was beaten to the jest by Bull, who dragged a large hand across the water, sending a small tidal wave of a splash up to hit Dorian in the shins. 

“I see you staring, pretty boy. Come on in, if you want a piece of this.” He called, as Dorian exclaimed in surprise at being splashed. He got up, and quickly waded into the water as well. 

“The flirting is my thing, don’t steal my thing.” He said, splashing back. 

“Oh I can do more than flirt.” Said Bull. 

Dorian splashed him again. “Well you’ll have to wait, Bull, because right now I simply must compliment the Inquisitor’s physique.” 

Taren, some distance away, started, and looked down at himself. “Full of compliments now, Dorian?” He asked, “I did tell you this would improve your mood.” 

“Are you trying to make me jealous?” Bull continued the banter.  
  
“Mmm, yes.” Said Dorian, “in fact I think the two of you should wrestle for my affections.” 

At that, Bull bellowed a laugh. Dorian smiled, not to be beaten at his own game. 

“Hey, new girl, why don’t you jump in!” Called Bull to Leila, who looked up from her book in apparent surprise. 

“No thanks,” she said quickly. “Can’t swim.” 


	4. Brandy and Ice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian struggles to be responsible while Taren is uncharacteristically irresponsible, and all my characters drink too much.

Taren was unaccustomed to having so many resources at his disposal. 

Larger though his clan had been, he had barely had his own personal set of books, never mind an entire library. It was a perk of the job he had a great appreciation for. However he also had an appreciation for the title he’d been given, and the responsibilities which came with it, meaning that he didn’t have nearly as much free time as he would have liked to spend enjoying the offerings of Skyhold’s large library. But he had taken to spending his evenings there whenever he had one to spare, and in doing so had begun to develop a somewhat unexpected friendship with the Tevinter mage who took up residence there. 

What was once based on what Taren at first found to be intimidating displays of arcane knowledge, and even more intimidating open flirtation, was now a relationship rooted in impassioned discussions and scintillating discoveries among the many books and journals the Inquisition collected. The flirtation hadn’t stopped, of course, but Taren liked to think that he had learned to keep up. More than that, the research was productive, interesting. And through it he had gotten to know a side of Dorian that continually impressed him. Beneath the lascivious commentary, Dorian was a man most excited by a new bit of knowledge, and Taren enjoyed that he had found someone with whom he had that in common. There was also the matter of how thinking about Dorian had begun to make Taren feel; the way his days were spent waiting for a quiet evening in the library, or the relishing of every teasing comment thrown his way.

The Inquisitor had not yet decided what to do about those feelings, and he pushed any concerns he had about them out of his mind as he entered the library, eager to enjoy Dorian’s company while he set out to work on deciphering some of the latest scrolls uncovered in the Forbidden Oasis’ temples. 

\----

Dorian was seated in his usual spot, researching the origins of some runes which the Inquisition had recently discovered. He offered a short wave to Taren as he entered, looking up briefly from the piles of books and old manuscripts which covered the table in front of him. Taren returned the wave, and came forward to sit in the chair next to Dorian’s, diving without a word into his own research. A contented smile spread over Dorian’s lips. 

The two of them carried on their research in mutual silence for a time. And the night began as it always did: 

Occasionally Dorian would turn to him for a translation of something Elvhen, and Taren would at times do the same for phrases of ancient Tevene.

“Well this is interesting, here, look at this -” Dorian would say whenever something interesting presented itself, pointing at one of his books. 

“Oh that is useful,” Taren would reply, making a note of it to share with his council later.

Then, each would return to their books for a time. Eventually, however, as the other library patrons filtered out and headed to their beds, Dorian and Taren’s research would inevitably fall to the side, and the two would wind up simply talking, stimulated into conversation by one thing or another. This night, it would be brandy.

“I almost forgot-” Taren said, closing the heavy volume he’d spent the last two hours combing through without any success, “I confiscated some brandy from a Venatori excavation site last week, it might make all this dry research go faster.” He offered. 

Dorian leaned back in his chair, he had been researching runes for hours without finding anything on the particular rune he was looking for. “Why didn’t you say so earlier?” He asked, welcoming the break. 

Taren left and returned momentarily with a large bottle of dark liquid. He cleared some space and poured out two rather generous glasses. 

“Oh, and it’s Antivan, you shouldn’t have.” Noted Dorian, taking a look at the bottle. He raised his glass in a toast,“to killing mad cultists!” 

Taren laughed and raised his glass in agreement. Dorian downed the first glass in one gulp, and poured himself another. Taren watched him over the rim of his own glass and pursed his lips.

“Rough day?” He asked, sounding genuinely concerned.

“My father’s birthday.” Dorian replied, “it’s the fifth one I’ve missed now.”

“I’m sorry.” Taren said, still genuine. 

“Oh, I don’t regret missing them, but the day does always seem to leave a bad taste in my mouth that only brandy can cure.” Dorian joked with a cynical half-smile. 

Taren didn't respond.

“You have a good relationship with your parents, I take it.” Dorian said, noticing Taren’s silence. 

“I loved my parents.” Taren replied with a small shrug, “I was really raised by my Keeper and the rest of my clan, though.” 

“Dalish clans are like big happy families, right? You must miss it.” 

Taren laughed. “Oh it’s just like a family; hardly ever happy.” He joked, “a lot like it is here, really. But I never liked being so isolated from the world, happy upbringing or not.” 

“Then I suppose you’re in the right line of work.” Dorian said. 

Taren laughed again. “I suppose.” He said. "I do love the Dalish, but it could still be...frustrating. Every little thing having to be all tied up in tradition...”

Dorian nodded in agreement. “Now that is a sentiment I know well.” He said, pouring Taren another glass. 

“I do miss the parties, though.” 

“Oh yes, love a good party! Tevinter parties are always so exciting - you should see it, I guarantee that you have never experienced anything like an Imperial Grand Ball. The music, the dancing, the sword fights!” He sighed wistfully. 

“I’m not sure an Imperial Grand Ball would be the safest place for me.” Taren commented with another laugh. 

“Ah, but you see that’s the beauty of it! No one is safe at a Grand Ball, so you’d have nothing to worry about.” Dorian said. “I haven’t known any Dalish elves, but I can’t say I’ve heard much about their parties. Do tell me there are sword fights - all the best parties have them, you know.”  
  
“No sword fights that I can remember, but the music and dancing we excel at.”

“I can’t picture you dancing.” Said Dorian. He wanted to see it, though.

“Really? I’ll have to throw a party sometime, then.” Taren smiled.

“Oh please do, it would be a welcome break. And you, my friend, have earned a few of those by now, I should think.” Dorian tipped his glass toward Taren, then took another drink. “I’ll never understand how you manage to be so serious all the time, you’re almost as bad as Cassandra.” He teased. 

“It’s hardly all the time,” said Taren, “just whenever anyone is looking. Which, granted, seems to be all the time. I think it’s the ears, they rather stick out.” 

Dorian laughed. “You are a funny man, Inquisitor, has anyone told you that?” 

“Vivienne mentioned something the other day about it, but I think that was to do with my clothes.” 

Dorian laughed much harder at that, which caused him to choke on his brandy.

“Alright, that’s wrong with my clothes?” Taren demanded to know, chuckling. 

“Nothing, nothing.” Dorian said, unconvincingly stifling another laugh. 

“Dorian?”

“Well, that vest - it is rather… busy. And don’t you ever get cold, running around barefoot all the time?” 

Taren was wearing a vest made from a light brown leather, embossed with a design of leaves and trimmed with dark green embroidery mimicking the tattoos on his face. 

“It was my mother’s.” Taren protested, looking down at himself self-consciously. This made Dorian laugh even harder. 

“Sorry,” He composed himself. “It’s lovely, really. But perhaps one day we can go out to that market in Val Royeaux and get you something a bit more… commanding.” 

“Alright,” Taren agreed, he leaned back in his chair, smiling at Dorian pleasantly, “if you think that’s what I need.” 

Dorian was slightly taken aback by Taren’s acquiescence. How was the man able to be both a strong leader and riveting speech-maker and also so… Dorian couldn't place it. Sweet? The inquisitor was being sweet. Dorian felt heat reach his cheeks, and hoped that another drink might mask it. He took one quickly. 

“Oh I wouldn't worry too much about it, Inquisitor.” Dorian said, trying to fall back on nonchalance. “You spend so much of your time covered in blood, anyway. Besides, you do have good hair.” He couldn't help himself, it was true. 

Taren laughed, he reached up to stroke his dark red hair, it was wavy, sometimes even forming loose ringlets, and he kept it partly shaved on one side to reveal a bit of tattoo which spread up from his right temple, the rest fell as it would, and was sort of shaggy; he didn’t tend to it much. 

“You think so?” 

“The colour brings out your eyes,” Dorian replied, leaning in - more or less involuntarily, “and you have very nice eyes.”

Taren’s eyes were a soft sage green, but they did become startling in the contrast, and they looked into Dorian’s now. He leaned in closer as well. 

Remembering himself, Dorian cleared his throat and pulled quickly away. “More brandy, Inquisitor?” He asked. Not waiting for an answer, Dorian poured two more glasses and hastily took a swig from his own. 

Taren frowned slightly, taking up his glass. He took a long sip. “I'd prefer it if you just called me Taren, you know. ‘Inquisitor’ is a little formal.” 

Dorian was now completely flustered. Harmless flirting was his trademark, of course, but it was supposed to be… well, harmless. So why did his stomach hurt? 

“A leader needs his powerful title, if everyone went around calling you by name there would be chaos. What would Orlais be without its fancy titles? Just a bunch of people with funny accents and strange birds in their hair?” Dorian joked. He was rambling. Maker, he almost never found himself _rambling_. 

“I didn't say everyone should stop calling me ‘Inquisitor’.” Taren said, voice low as he placed a hand gently on Dorian’s thigh. 

“Preferential treatment?” Dorian said with a tsk, instinctively flirting and only barely remembering that he had just promised himself he wouldn’t. “People will start to get the wrong idea.” 

“And what idea might that be?” Asked Taren in a whisper. He leaned in, and his lips met Dorian’s in a gentle but deliberate kiss. For one long moment, Dorian kissed back. His eyes closed, and his hand reached up to touch the back of Taren’s neck. He tasted of brandy, and smelled, somehow, softly of pine. 

“Taren,” Dorian breathed. Taren moved to kiss him again, Dorian began to follow, then, catching himself, quickly pulled away. 

“We aren't exactly in private.” He cautioned, beginning to think better of things again. It was difficult to do, through the brandy. He made a concentrated effort to look over Taren’s shoulder, at his chair. 

“There's no one here.” Taren gestured around the empty library. “And I wouldn't care if there was.” He was slurring his words, a crooked smile on his lips. He even swayed slightly as he moved in an attempt to lean into Dorian again. Dorian pulled even further away, having now completely thought better of things. 

“You're drunk.” Dorian said with a small frown.

“So are you.” Taren countered. 

“Yes, but I'm almost always drunk.” 

Dorian stood and took a few paces away from the table, reluctantly. He was quickly discovering that he was not at all a fan of acting responsibly. “I like a hedonistic affair as much as the next man, but we shouldn't. If anyone saw -” 

“Then they might think what? That I like you? I do.” Taren said, always so infuriatingly genuine. He stood, unsteady, and looked wistfully after Dorian, his green eyes making no secret of their longing. 

“Well certainly, I’m charming.” Dorian brushed the compliment - and the look - aside. 

“You know what I mean.” Taren said pointedly, softly, _seductively_. His gaze, if it was possible, seemed to intensify. 

“You're drunk.” Dorian repeated, looking away. 

“Dorian…” Taren took a step closer toward him. 

“We shouldn't.” Dorian sighed. 

“I like you, Dorian. I want-” 

Dorian didn't let him finish the thought. “You have responsibilities. You can't have dalliances.” 

“So don't be a dalliance.” 

Dorian let out a short laugh, despite himself. “You don't want that.” 

“I believe that I do.” 

Well, those words hurt. Why in Andraste’s name did that _hurt_? 

“We can't do that.” Oh, right. That was why. 

“Why not? Because you're from Tevinter? Because I'm an elf?” Taren was defensive, _offended._

Dorian silently cursed himself and seriously thought about reconsidering his decision to not allow himself to become entirely infatuated with the famously heroic leader of the organization that was posed to prevent the monumental disaster his own countrymen were in the process of imposing on the world. An organization to which he had sworn an oath of loyalty, and which he was personally rather invested in seeing succeed. Not becoming entirely infatuated with people, he tried to remind himself, was one of his specialties.

Only, the Inquisitor just had to be Taren Levellan. Caring, genuine, smart and handsome, and a terrific mage who smelled of pine, and whose lips were soft, intoxicating, and at this moment - he knew - tasted sweetly of brandy. Alright, so he was already completely infatuated. Now he had to _stop._

He silently cursed the Inquisitor, and his lips, too. The Inquisitor was drunk, and would not otherwise be jeopardizing the tenuous respect of his followers. Dorian assured himself of this, and resolved not to let Taren, who was - he stressed the thought - both his leader and his _friend_ , jeopardize that respect, either. 

“Because you're… you. You're the Inquisitor.”

Taren frowned. 

“You're drunk, Inquisitor. You should go get some rest.” Dorian said firmly. 

“Join me.” Taren offered, apparently not yet swayed.

Dorian coughed. “I'd love to, believe me, under different circumstances. Perhaps when you're done saving the world.” Dismissive, charming, still forcing himself to look anywhere but at Taren’s imploring eyes, lest he change his mind and do something irresponsible, Maker, not doing irresponsible things was definitely _not_ his specialty _._

Taren’s frown deepened at the rejection, but he didn't protest it any further. Somewhat embarrassed, he admitted a need for sleep, and made a quick, if stumbling, exit. 

\----

The moment that the inquisitor was out of sight, Dorian let out a long sigh. He turned back to the table and his brandy, and noticed for the first time that there was, in fact, someone else still in the library. 

From a chair in a dimly lit alcove, a short distance from the table, Leila looked up at Dorian over the top of a large book.

Dorian almost jumped. “Have you been there the whole time?” 

Leila nodded.

“So you heard...all of that.” 

She nodded again, getting up from her seat and walking over to join Dorian at his table. 

“I can pretend I didn't, though, if it helps.” She said, attempting to hide her smirk. 

“I would appreciate that.” Dorian sighed. He poured himself another two fingers of brandy. “I don't believe we've been properly introduced,” he noted after swallowing it all in one mouthful. “Dorian of House Pavus. Drink?” Dorian held up the bottle in offer, though there wasn't much left. 

Leila took the bottle. “We cleared out a temple in the Forbidden Oasis together last week.” She reminded him.

Dorian flashed her a quick glare. “Well, raiding temples and killing demons is hardly a proper introduction.”

“Isn't it?” Leila laughed, “well, you were rather distracted then, I suppose.” 

Dorian managed a small laugh, though it tasted bitter. “Fair point.” he said. 

Leila took a swig from the bottle. 

“What are you doing up here at this hour anyway?”

Leila held up the book she had been reading, displaying the cover in answer. The Schools of Creation: A Beginner's Guide to Healing Magic, it read. 

“Is that a Circle tome? I didn't know we had any of those here.” He read the title and chuckled, “Introduction to creation spells, that does bring me back. Well, if you were having trouble sleeping it's a good choice. Rather dull.” 

“I find it sort of fascinating.” Said Leila. “I never did get around to being properly educated though, I suppose.” The remark was more than a little snide. 

“Have I offended you now, too?” Dorian grumpily shot back. “This just isn't my day.” 

Leila took another drink. “No, you're right, I'm sorry. You don't offend me. It's just the institutions you represent.” She wasn't overly harsh in tone this time, in fact she was almost casual, but the air of distrust was still clear. 

“Right. Not a big fan of the Imperium. I'd call it unfair but I suppose you have more reason than most.” 

“That's one way to put it.” 

“You know, personally I'm very against the whole ‘keeping people as property’ thing. And not everyone from Tevinter is a power-mad bloodmage.” 

“Congratulations on that, then.” She said, taking another drink. 

“Ah, sarcasm. I suppose I must deserve that.” Dorian sighed. “All I meant was that I've seen you fight - all that ice magic, and that invisibility thing you do? You're quite talented. I doubt you'll find anything as interesting in that poor work of Chantry-sanctioned propaganda.” 

“What?” 

“Those books are substandard informational pamphlets at best; magic instruction watered down by a load of Chantry appeasement and Andrastian rhetoric. I can't see why you'd bother with them, skilled as you are.” Bitterly criticizing the unfortunate book, surprisingly, made him feel a little better. 

Leila looked at the book, then back up at Dorian. “I, uh, thanks.” She said. “Still, healing magic seemed like something worth studying. What with all the fighting.” 

Dorian chuckled. “Well yes, but then what you really want is The Secrets to Life, or perhaps Grand Enchanter Ivan’s dissertations on the art of spirit healing. All you'll find in there,” he gestured toward the book, “are the basic spells they teach first year Circle apprentices in the South.” 

“Well I never actually got past that level, so I thought now might be a good time for a refresher.” Said Leila. 

Dorian stopped. “Hold on,” he said, “where exactly were you trained in magic?” 

Leila shrugged. “I didn't train anywhere, really.” She said. 

“You taught yourself?” Impressive. And...tragic. 

“What I could. I just...never really got the healing stuff.” 

“So all this time you've been running around throwing icicles at people and slinging daggers without knowing any proper healing spells? Are you insane?” 

“I can make bleeding stop, if the cut’s shallow enough.” Leila said defensively. “And usually I carry bandages and so on, so -” 

“- Andraste’s mercy, never mind that old schoolbook, you're going to learn some proper healing magic. From me. Starting tomorrow.” Dorian ordered, equal parts concerned and stunned. 

“You want to teach me?” 

“Maker, someone should. And I think I owe you, you know, considering your history.” 

“I don't want to be your charity project.” 

“I didn't mean it like that.” He sighed. “Then let's call it a deal: I help you, and you don't tell anyone about tonight's display. Sound fair?” 

“I suppose having a teacher couldn't hurt.”

“Good. Well then, I’m going up to my chambers to pass out. Find me in the morning.” Dorian stated, rising to leave. “No, wait,” he stopped, eyeing the now empty bottle of brandy, “better make it the afternoon.”


	5. O Happy Dagger!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lot of talking. Again. Listen, this whole fic is just character study via conversation. Take your expositional dialogue and enjoy :)

“Why is it that you don't use a staff, anyway? I've been meaning to ask.” Dorian said. He waved his own staff around expertly, setting up a barrier around himself. 

The pair had found a secluded little valley just outside Skyhold’s walls, where Dorian was having Leila practice enacting barrier spells. The day before had been spent in the library with Dorian instructing Leila to read piles upon piles of dense texts. It had not gone well, and had quickly devolved into a drinking game where no actual learning took place. At least, though, they had discovered a mutual love of drinking, and so the tensions had quickly broken. Still, the fact remained that Dorian was now determined to ensure that this young mage became at least competent in healing and protective magic. This hands-on training session was his attempt at a more accessible teaching style. 

Leila shrugged. “Just never learned. Staves are expensive, and big, and awkward and heavy. They're a dead give away for an apostate, too.” She raised her right hand and formed a shower of icicles, which she flung at Dorian. His barrier deflected them without faltering. 

“Have you always been an apostate? No circle training whatsoever?” 

“I was at the circle in Ferelden for a few years, but I was just a kid, and then… well, the blight. Then I went to Kirkwall with some other refugees. It wasn't exactly safe for mages there, and in Darktown it's sort of stab-or-be-stabbed. You learn to fight without magic pretty quick.”

She formed a barrier of her own now, raising both arms and putting a considerable amount of concentration into bringing them down again. 

“That is fascinating. I mean tragic, of course, but fascinating.” Said Dorian. He prepared to throw a small fireball at her. 

“It wasn't really as exciting as it sounds.” 

The fireball hit the barrier and dissipated, but the barrier dissipated with it. The end of a lock of Leila’s hair also caught fire, she put it out with a frown. 

“Not bad. You just need to hold the shape of it closer, think of it like a tight weave, or like chain mail - all the fade you’re pulling in should... link up.” 

Leila tried again. This time the fireball still dissipated her barrier, but there was no damage to her hair. 

“That invisibility spell you do, how do you keep that up? It’s impenetrable, maybe you can apply the same principles.” Dorian suggested. 

“It doesn’t protect from anything though, it’s more a curtain than a shield.” 

Dorian thought for a moment. “I have an idea,” he said, “it’s only strength you lack. Try making a small barrier, just the size of a round shield.”

Leila did so, and a shimmering barrier of magic was just visible at the end of her arm. 

“Make it as strong as you can.” Dorian said, backing up and preparing to launch another fireball at the small target. 

The new barrier technique withstood four fireballs before dissipating, and for the next hour Leila continued to attempt to strengthen and enlarge her barriers gradually, with Dorian continually testing them with fireballs. Eventually Leila built up a traditional barrier around her whole body which could withstand about three of Dorian’s fireballs.  
  
“Not bad for your first day.” Dorian said, ready to conclude the lesson for the day. 

“Hold on,” Leila said, “I have an idea.” 

She formed the small, shield-shaped barrier again, bracing it in front of her left arm, and suddenly sprinted toward Dorian, shoving him with the barrier she propelled in front of her. He stumbled back at the impact, and nearly fell on his ass. 

“Did you just… shield-bash me with a magical barrier?” Dorian sputtered in disbelief. 

Leila laughed, apparently elated that her little trick had worked. Dorian began to laugh as well. 

“That is completely brilliant. You have to use that.” He said. 

“I had a brilliant teacher.” Leila responded with a wink. 

Dorian smiled. “I appreciate the recognition.” He said. 

\----

Taren took two days before coming by the library again, ostensibly because he was busy preparing for a trip out onto the Storm Coast, but truthfully because he was entirely too embarrassed to face Dorian. But Taren was not one for avoiding responsibilities, and he felt - once sobriety had set in and the hangover had cleared - that it was his responsibility to apologise to Dorian, and to try to salvage what he hoped could still be a respectful friendship.

Taren entered the library with determination in his step. Scanning the library, however, he found no sign of Dorian, and his determination wavered slightly. He paused in the stairwell a moment before regaining some of his previous determination and heading over to Dorian’s usual alcove, taking a seat. He grabbed the nearest book - some monstrosity on the art of magically resetting broken bones, which went into unnecessary lengths on the intricacies of not just human, but horse, druffalo, bear and even wyvern anatomy - and pretended to read it as he waited. 

Dorian ascended the stairs shortly, smiling jovially, as Leila followed behind him. Sh said something animated, and Dorian laughed. Taren’s heart fluttered at the sound more than he wanted it to. 

Leila noticed him first, gesturing to reveal his presence to Dorian, who stopped laughing, and reddened slightly. Dorian walked over cautiously as Leila made herself scarce. 

Taren stood as Dorian approached, attempting to recall the speech he had prepared. 

\---

“Inquisitor,” said Dorian, courteous, guarded. He had half hoped that in his drunken state, Taren would have forgotten the events of the other night.

“Dorian, I need to talk to you. To apologise.” Taren said. 

“Don’t,” Dorian began, but Taren continued. 

“About the other night, I acted inappropriately.” 

There it was, _acting inappropriately_. Dorian’s favourite thing to do, and, he knew, the last thing that an elven Inquisitor could afford to do any more of. 

“I flirt too much.” Dorian offered, “I do it with everyone, I can’t help myself - it’s a sickness, really.”

Taren looked somewhat hurt. “I’m sorry that I misread your intentions.” He said. 

Dorian frowned. “Not that I don’t give compliments genuinely, or enjoy your company, it’s only that -”

“-You aren’t interested in me in that way.” He cringed visibly with the words, face shrouded in shame, or perhaps diappointment. Dorian cringed too, for different reasons, namely: he very much was. “I understand.” 

Dorian sighed. “I’m sorry if I lead you on, Inquisitor.” He said, hating himself as he did so. 

“No, I’m sorry that I put you in a difficult position.” 

_Difficult position._ Dorian resisted making the obvious innuendo. Sickness indeed, he thought. 

“I hope you can still see me as a friend.” Taren said quickly. 

“Of course.” Dorian replied. “And perhaps when this is all over we can throw a party. Dance, get drunk, see where it all leads.” Maker blight it all why couldn’t he help himself. 

Taren’s face contorted into a strained expression, and he let out a very weak laugh. “Don’t give me false hope.” He cautioned, almost annoyed and definitely flustered. 

“Sickness,” Dorian said, trying to break the tension, “I’ll try to stop.”

Taren shuffled from one foot to the other, and Dorian was suddenly very aware of how very _small_ he seemed. He had never noticed before that Taren stood roughly half a foot shorter than himself. And he was thin, lanky, freckled, _adorable._ “Well, see you later, Dorian.” Taren said, looking mainly at his feet, which, for once, were not bare. Taren turned to leave, not feeling particularly better. Dorian watched him go, and hated himself a little bit more. 

When the Inquisitor was gone, Leila rounded the corner of the alcove. 

“That was painful to watch.” She said, taking a seat on the arm of Dorian’s usual chair. 

“Then why did you?” Dorian replied bitterly. 

Leila ignored him. “Same time tomorrow?” She asked, picking up a couple of the books on healing magic which littered the alcove. 

Dorian shook himself out of his self-pity as well as he could. “Sure. Bring your daggers, we’ll see how they do against barriers.”

“That sounds patently unsafe.” Leila said, though she was grinning.

“It’s magic, it should be.” Dorian shrugged.

Leila paused, normally this would be where she would head back to her own chambers and spend the rest of the day studying, alone. But she was feeling sympathetic, and also surprisingly in desire of being sociable. “Come down to the tavern and get a drink with me.” She suggested, “otherwise you’re just going to drink mopily here, alone.” 

Dorian sighed, resigned. “You know, spy or not, I think you know too much.” He said. 

\----

The tavern was bustling. The bard was playing a jaunty melody and drunken Inquisition supporters were talking and laughing loudly at nearly every table. Leila looked out at the crowd of bar patrons in search of a place to sit. Her usual dark corner was unoccupied, but also only sat one. She was about to suggest that they simply stand at the bar, when she noticed the giant, horned figure of the Iron Bull notice her, raise his giant beer mug, and wave both her and Dorian over. 

Dorian shrugged, as though to say “this should be fun”, and went over. Leila ordered two pints of ale at the bar, and followed after him. 

The Iron Bull was seated at a large table, drinking a large beer, and loudly debating the veritability of a story he was telling about killing a pack of rampaging wyverns with his lieutenant, Krem, while Sera watched on - apparently entirely enthralled by the tale. Leila took a seat and passed Dorian his drink. He raised his mug in thanks, and took a large gulp. 

“And then FIFTY -”  
  
“It was not fifty. It was ten at most.”  
  
“- Damn it, Krem. Fine, AT LEAST TEN WYVERNS came running down this hill at us…” 

Bull was animated, and clearly drunk. Leila eyed the enormous mug he was waving about in his right hand as he spoke, and wondered absently how many it took to get him to such a state. 

Some animated storytelling and arguing later, Bull fixed his attention on Leila and Dorian, who was now on his third ale and had been remarkably quiet so far. 

“So, you and the ‘Vint are striking up an unlikely little friendship these days.” Bull said. 

Dorian rolled his eyes at being called “the ‘Vint”. “It’s nice to meet a mage who appreciates my educational talents.” He said, somewhat haughty. 

“He’s teaching me about healing stuff.” Leila explained. 

“Alright, what's your deal with that anyway?” Sera interjected “you fight like a regular person but you use spells what don’t come out of a bottle, and sometimes you throw _ice_ instead of knives, but not freezing people like Vivienne.” 

Leila shrugged. “I’m a mage, I just don’t fight like one. I like my daggers.” 

Sera scowled, “mages already are weapons, why’d you need to go and get _more_?”

“Well without a staff most magic is kind of shit, so: daggers.”

“You could just get a staff.” Dorian piped up.

“Have you ever tried to run with a staff? Anyway, I _like_ being more in the middle of things in a fight. I like daggers.”

Bull and Sera both seemed to understand that point well enough. 

“I’d wager that you could get that new arcanist to enchant your daggers, to help with the focusing issue of not using a staff.” Dorian suggested thoughtfully. Sera shot him a disapproving look. 

“Just don’t point them at me, then.” She said, and she leaned slightly further away from Leila. 

“It’s not like I asked to be a mage, you know.” Leila said, feeling a bit defensive. “Things would have been a lot easier if I hadn’t been.” She huffed, which shut everyone up for a while. 

“Okay, but there’s also the spy thing. You’re an ex-Tevinter spy, right?” Bull asked after a pause. 

“Well I'm from Ferelden, and more a thief than spy, really. But I guess you could say that.” 

“We really do just let anyone join, don’t we?” Bull joked. 

“You’re an _active_ Qunari spy, boss.” Krem pointed out from beside him. 

“Thief is better than spy.” Sera commented with a bit of a wave of her hand. “But, you’re not cursed or anything, right? That jerk you worked for was one nasty bastard.”

Leila shifted in her seat a little uncomfortably. Dorian noticed, and frowned sympathetically. 

“Magic doesn’t work like that, Sera.” He said. Leila shot him a grateful look. 

“Is it true you stabbed your master with his own ceremonial blood magic knife?” Krem asked, compelled by curiosity. 

“Oh? That I didn’t hear about.” Dorian said, also curious. 

“Yeah! That bit was friggin’ brilliant. And brutal! The look on his face.” Sera chimed in laughing, miming choking and covering an imagined split throat, and saving Leila from having to retell it herself with her enthusiasm. “I get liking a knife better for fights like that.” She added. 

“No offence, but I still think it’s kind of crazy the Inquisitor just let you join.” Bull noted. “I may be a spy, but I was upfront. And I didn’t try to kill anyone first.” 

“I didn’t try to kill Cullen, I tried to steal from him. He just… got in the way.” Leila said, to a response of laughter from Sera. 

“Got in the way!” Sera quoted through her laughter, “next time I off a noble I only planned to rob, that’s what I’m calling it.” She vowed, drunk and amused. 

Leila shrugged. “Everyone makes mistakes, right? I did apologize.” Sera laughed even harder at that, and even Bull chuckled. 

“You’re one lucky thief, I’ll give you that.” He said. Leila tipped her glass toward him in agreement. 

After going around the table with a few more stories, Dorian went and got himself another pint of ale. His fourth. When he came back Bull raised an eyebrow at him. 

“Going a little heavy there, Dorian. It’s still early.” 

“Like you should talk.” Dorian shot back, he seemed sulkier with every drink, which was sort of the opposite of what Leila had intended. She frowned, and attempted to change the subject. 

For a while, things went cheerily. Bull told another story, this time about fighting sylvans, and Sera made a game of watching other drunk patrons fall and stumble, at least until she got up to get herself a refill and also stumbled. The table was amused, Sera was not. 

Krem called it a night first, and soon after Dorian also stood to leave. “Thanks for the reprieve, you were probably right.” He admitted to Leila, “see you tomorrow.” 

Once he was out of earshot, both Sera and Bull turned expectantly to Leila. 

“Alright, what is with him tonight?” Bull asked. 

“Yeah, Dorian can’t usually sit quiet for more than two minutes. It’s annoying, but better than being a friggin’ wet blanket.” Sera added.

“He’s lovesick.” Leila shrugged. “Pining, I think.” 

“You’re shitting me, _still_? Is the Inquisitor blind? Or just stupid?” 

“You know?” 

“Of course, I’m Ben Hassrath, we’re trained to be very observant of behaviour, body language, things like that.” Bull boasted. Sera let out a loud snort. 

“You don’t need to be a bloody ben-whatsit to see how bad Dorian wants to get into some Inky trousers.” She said, rolling her eyes. “Or to see that he wants Dorian just as bad, he’s just too caught up in political nonsense to do anything about it. Plain stupid.” 

Bull laughed. “I mean, I get why it matters here, but you would never have this problem with the Qunari. People have urges, it’s normal. Besides, the Inquisitor’s the man in charge, what’s that worth if you can’t use it to chase tail?” 

“I don’t think it’s the Inquisitor who is holding back.” Leila said knowingly. 

“Wait, now you are definitely shitting us. Dorian turned the Inquisitor down?” 

Leila didn’t say anything, but her silence indicated enough. 

“Don’t get any ideas, Bull.” Sera cautioned, though she was looking just as intrigued by the gossip as Bull. 

“I’m not. Or maybe I am… well, if he asked me, I wouldn’t say no. That’s for damn sure.” 

“Who, Dorian or the Inquisitor?” Leila asked with a laugh. 

“Why not both?”

“Together? Ugh gross. Six balls too many, that.” Said Sera, making a face. 

Bull laughed. “Don’t knock it ‘til you’ve tried it.” He said. Sera's face grew even more disgusted.

Sera went on to look thoughtful for a moment, then burst out laughing. “You’d probably break the Inquisitor in half if _you_ tried it.” She sputtered, through laughter. 

“But the finding out part would be so damn good.” Countered Bull, a grin spreading across his face as Sera stuck out her tongue. 

“Honestly I don’t think it’s over yet, I think it’s only a matter of time,” Leila cut in. 

“You think that’s where Dorian got off to? And they’re upstairs shagging right now?” Sera laughed, “gross.” She said, still laughing. 

“You’re right, I give it a week.” Said Bull, “wanna place bets?”

“Two weeks.” Leila said. 

Sera shook her head at both of them. “I’m telling you, my money’s on them going at it right now.” 

Around this time, Maryden, the tavern minstrel, began playing her happy Sera-themed tune, and Sera turned bright red. She got up in a rage, marching over to have words with the singer, who apparently wouldn't hear them, prompting Sera to stomp angrily up the stairs and retreat to her quarters above the tavern with a violent slam of her door, instead. 

Leila and the Iron Bull looked at each other, then Bull shrugged. 

“You sticking around? I have a rendezvous with some kitchen staff scheduled later, so I'm here until they get off.” He said, then chuckled at the crude double meaning of the statement. 

Leila let out a small exhalation of laughter. She looked down at her ale, she was only on her second pint and it was still more than half full. “Sure.” She said. 

They drank in mutual silence for a while, until eventually Bull initiated conversation again. 

“You know what bugs me?” He asked, out of the blue. “Cullen caught you.”

“What about it?”

“I mean, he’s good in a fight and all, but any decent spy should be able to elude _Cullen_ , of all people.”  
  
“I’m not a spy.” Leila stressed, “just a thief.” 

“Still,” said Bull, “you can’t have been a very good thief if Cullen caught you.” 

Leila took offense to that. “Hey, I am a great thief. I’ll prove it.” She challenged. She was starting to feel a buzz from the alcohol. 

Bull laughed his booming laugh. “You’re on.” he said. 

\----

Over the following three days, after her afternoon training sessions with Dorian - which mostly involved more drinking and listening to Dorian give detailed explanations of various magical techniques - Leila made it a point to go down to the tavern and attempt to impress the Iron Bull with something she’d swiped. Day by day the feats grew more impressive: one of Dorian’s hats, a bottle of whiskey from the bartender’s locked cupboard, a hefty sack of coin, and even the chess pieces from the chessboard Cullen kept in his office, which she later dutifully returned. Finally, on the third day, she had something she thought would really do the trick, and she strode into the Tavern confidently, bought herself a pint of ale, found Bull at his table, and sat tall across from him. She placed a large ring gingerly on the table. Bull looked at it, then at her. He raised an eyebrow. 

“That’s mine.” He said, “how did you get that?”

“Stole it while you weren’t looking.” Said Leila, trying to be coy. She took a long, proud sip from her ale. 

“Alright, so you’re good.” Said Bull. He paused, “I think I’ve got you figured out.” He said. 

“What’s left to figure?” Leila asked, though for some reason she felt nervous. 

“You didn’t just get caught,” said Bull, “you did it on purpose."

Leila sighed and shook her head. “You sound like the Inquisitor, or Leliana. I didn’t have a plan.” She insisted, repeating the lie was helping her believe it.

“Maybe not, but you wanted to get caught, or else you wouldn’t have been.” Said Bull. 

Leila shrugged, resigned to let a little truth out. “I was a slave.” She said. “It _wasn’t_ a plan, but I saw a way out, so I took it.” 

Bull thought for a while. "Makes sense, the enemy of my enemy, right? And they'd never believe you would willingly turn yourself in, too sleeper-agent. So you make a deal. But why Cullen?"  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
"You attacked Cullen, why let him be the guy who catches you?" Bull was persistent.   
  
"I wanted out, so I got out. Cullen was just the first opportunity that - "  
  
"- No. If you just want to get caught, you pick someone who can't kill you. Josephine’s a good target - she keeps paperwork and walks around totally unarmed. You obviously knew the basic layout of Skyhold; you knew where Cullen’s office was and what would be in it. But a mage from Ferelden knows Cullen's a Templar, and you don't just attack the former Knight Captain of the place with the toughest reputation for its treatment of apostates in southern history. You were in Kirkwall, weren’t you? You had to know how stupid that was. For an apostate working for a Venatori sympathizer, attacking Cullen is suicide."  
  
Leila looked him straight in the eyes and said nothing. Comprehension clicked in Bull’s eyes. Leila took another long drink of her beer.  
  
"You didn't want to get caught." Bull stated, "you wanted to die."  
  
"So, you are a good spy." Said Leila. Her voice was calm, but inwardly she felt a familiar pit grow in her stomach.  
  
"Shit." Said Bull, "next one's on me."


	6. Last Resorts of Good Men

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shout out to the first reader to ever give me a kudo ^_^  
> This one has a big section of mission dialogue from the game, because it's good. Just some light tweaking from me, novelizing this goddamn video game.  
> Implied sex, but still rated T.

The day after Taren awkwardly apologized to Dorian for ungracefully propositioning him in the library, he had the unexpected misfortune of running into Mother Giselle in the main hall. She had a letter, she said. For Dorian. From his parents, who were worried about him.

Mother Giselle suggested that he do as the letter asked and not tell Dorian about the meeting with his family retainer, lest he refuse to go. 

Taren instinctively refused the idea. He would not lie to Dorian, he said. Dorian was an adult with the right to make up his own mind about whether or not to speak with his family. He would talk to Dorian first, show him the letter, he said. 

Mother Giselle had sighed, but left the Inquisitor to do as he saw best, and Taren felt good about the decision. Until he realised it meant he had to go find Dorian, and talk to him, and bring him the assuredly unpleasant news that his parents wanted to see him. Taren did not want to do that, not today. And so he was putting it off. 

Taren was going to the Storm Coast later that day, to finish closing rifts along the coast. And he was bringing Vivienne, Blackwall and Cole with him, and not Dorian. He decided that he could give Dorian the letter when he got back, in four days, and maybe by then the awkwardness of the situation would have faded. 

\----

Bringing Cole along on a trip when your mind is extremely preoccupied, he soon discovered, was not the wisest idea. 

“You think he doesn’t want you because your blood is wrong, but it isn’t that.” Said Cole, in the middle of fighting through the giant spiders occupying a damp coastal cave. 

Taren sighed.

“Not now, Cole.” 

\----

“His father’s voice is in his head a lot, it makes him sad and also cautious. He wouldn’t want you to know that.” Said Cole, as Taren finally managed to close a rift, panting for breath. 

“Then why did you just _tell_ me?” He huffed, exasperated and feeling guilty for the intrusion into Dorian’s private thoughts, and worse for the fact that he secretly wanted to hear more about what went on in Dorian’s private thoughts. 

\---- 

“You want to be with him because he makes you happy. He wants you to be happy, but worries he can’t. You should tell him he can, he doesn’t know.” Cole said one night as the Inquisitor was reading through a list of the West Coast Camp’s requisitions. 

“I did, Cole.” 

“Why didn’t he listen?” 

Taren sighed. “You tell me.” 

“I don’t understand it. If people want to be happy and they have what they want in reach then they should take it.” He said, and Taren chuckled because Cole was a spirit and a rogue, and of course that was what he thought. 

\----

“Couldn’t you stop caring, and care about something else?” Cole asked, more curious than helpful, as the group prepared for the journey back to Skyhold. 

“In time.” Taren answered simply, he had learned that simple answers usually worked best with Cole. “That’s usually how it works when someone wants someone who doesn’t want them back.” He paused. “Do you think I should?” Was he so desperate that he really wanted to take relationship advice from the personified spirit who had only lived in the real world for what, less than four years? Apparently he was. 

“No.” Said Cole. 

Taren sighed again. 

\----

By the time he got back to Skyhold, Taren was exhausted - and it wasn’t just from fighting demons. He went quickly up to his chambers, bathed, and fell asleep on the simple four-poster Ferelden bed. 

Taren awoke well after sunset. He sat up in bed, blearily rubbed his eyes, and looked about his room. Across from him on his desk sat the letter from Dorian’s father, white parchment glowing ominously in the moonlight. Taren rolled over and went back to sleep. 

He rose early the next morning, carefully folded the letter, and with resolve, placed it in his pocket. But the morning held other duties, and he doubted Dorian would even be up yet, so he set to work. 

There was a war council meeting to attend; Josephine was going to secure The Inquisition an invitation to the upcoming ball at the Winter Palace, and Varric had a contact who would soon be visiting with important information. He talked to Cassandra about the seekers, and to Cullen about the troops. Then he stalled some more, since he was out of official duties to attend to, by stopping by to catch up with Sera, and going to the stables to ask Blackwall some questions about the Wardens, and seeking out Varric to hear another story about the Champion of Kirkwall.

The strategy was going well enough until Varric stopped him with a knowing look. 

“Something on your mind, Inquisitor?” Varric probed, which made Taren sigh. He found he felt like sighing a lot, lately. 

“You know, sometimes it’s best just to get things over with.” Varric advised, and Taren got the feeling that he had too many spies in his company. 

\----

Taren made his way somewhat slowly up the steps to the library, and found Dorian was not in his usual spot. He thought about simply going back to his chambers, or to the tavern for a drink, but found himself wandering toward the empty dungeons instead. Leila had a point, they were quiet. 

Or usually they were quiet. Taren heard a loud crack as he approached, and broke into a run. The source of the commotion, he soon found out, was Dorian. He and Leila were in the dungeons practicing at something… involving lightning? Seeing him run in, they both stopped whatever they were doing in a hurry.

Taren was a little surprised to see the two of them together, a bottle of wine between them on the floor, magical energy in the air. He raised an eyebrow. 

“Should I be concerned?” He asked the silent pair. 

“Dorian was teaching me some healing magic -” Leila began hurriedly. 

“- And barriers - did you know she could barely perform a simple barrier or a wound-heal when she got here? Honestly, where do you find the people you let into this organization?” Dorian continued. Leila shot him a look of mock-offence. 

“But then Dorian wanted to try experimenting with lightning spells and these new daggers Dagna made, so we came down here and -” 

“- And the bottle of wine?” Taren interrupted, trying to sound less amused than he was. 

“Makes it fun.” Shrugged Dorian. He was in a particularly good mood, it seemed. Taren wasn’t sure if that made things better or worse. 

“I have a letter for you.” He said bluntly, addressing Dorian. Dorian smiled, which worried him. 

“For me?” 

“From your father.” 

Dorian’s face fell. “Oh.”

Leila took this as her cue to silently slip out, heading up the steps out of the dungeons and disappearing. 

Taren walked to Dorian, handing the letter out to him. Dorian took it and read it over a few times, his brow furrowing deeper on every pass. 

“He’s going to send a retainer to Redcliffe.” 

“It could be a trap.” 

“I wouldn’t put it past him.” Dorian sighed. “I suppose there’s only one way to find out.”

“Then I’m going with you.” Taren said with certainty. 

Dorian smiled weakly. “Good, if it is a trap, that will certainly take them by surprise.” He paused, looking over the letter again. “Thank you for giving this to me.” He said. 

“Of course.” 

“The letter asked you to cart me off to see the retainer without my knowledge.” He noted. 

“I wouldn’t do that.” Said Taren, meaning in his voice. 

“That’s… thanks.” Dorian replied. Was it utterly warped that he found the action of not simply doing as his father asked - going behind his back - to be incredibly endearing? Yes, he thought, probably. 

“We’ll leave tomorrow then?” Asked the Inquisitor. 

Dorian agreed. “Might as well get it over with, I suppose.” 

\----

When the Inquisitor left, Dorian crumpled the letter and shoved it in his pocket, cursing under his breath. Then he sighed.

“I know you’re still here.” He called out, fairly certain that Leila was waiting, cloaked in her invisibility spell, nearby. As predicted, she emerged out of the shadows.

“Sorry.” She apologized meekly. 

Dorian crossed his arms. 

“What? Like you wouldn’t do the same.” 

Dorian shook his head at her. “Shall we get back to it?” He gestured to the bottle of wine. 

Leila picked up the bottle and took a seat on a step. Dorian joined her, carefully gathering his robes to avoid dirtying them on the damp floor as much as possible. Leila handed him the bottle, and he took a long drink. 

“Save some for me.” She protested. Dorian handed the bottle back. 

Dorian was cursing in Tevene again, under his breath.

“Your family can’t be that bad.” Leila said. She knew a few Tevinter curse words, and Dorian had used them all and more. 

“Oh, but they can.” He said bitterly. 

“Well then consider yourself lucky you have a family to hate.” It was a harsh comment, but she didn’t say it with any harshness in her voice. 

“That isn’t fair.” 

Leila shrugged. “I’m pretty sure I hate my family too, but I don’t remember.” She said, taking a swig of wine. 

Dorian laughed, sardonic as she was, the preformative bitterness brought perspective. “Consider yourself lucky you were able to forget them, then.” He said. 

“I’m sure it’ll be fine, whatever it is. The Inquisitor is going along, that’s good, right?” 

Dorian sighed. “Maybe.” He said. 

\----

That night, Dorian paid a visit to a room he’d been to twice already that week. Both prior times he had been drunk and unhappy, but not quite so drunk nor quite so unhappy as he was now. The Iron Bull looked him up and down with an unimpressed expression. 

“I’m not going to fuck you looking like this.” He said, sternly. 

Dorian said nothing, and slumped down in a chair at a nearby small reading table. Bull pulled another up beside him, and Dorian handed him the half-empty bottle of hard liquor he was carrying. 

“Not here to fuck, Bull.” Dorian mumbled. 

“Well, that isn’t like you.” Replied Bull, his eyes pressing Dorian to speak. 

“Don’t want to talk about it, Bull.” Said Dorian. 

The Iron Bull rolled his eyes. “Then why are you here, Dorian?” He took a drink, and set the bottle down on the table between them. Dorian picked it up, took a large swig, and grimaced. 

"Fine, maybe I do just want to fuck.” Dorian said, “but it’s going to be the last time.”

The Iron Bull looked at Dorian with surprising softness. “You know I don’t care that you’re in love with him,” he said, taking the bottle for another drink, and holding onto it, “if I had it my way, I’d be getting you both in my bed.” He laughed, loudly. Dorian groaned. “But, I think last time was the last time, pretty boy. For your sake.” Dorian groaned again. 

“Sure you won’t talk about it? I can just be a friend, you know.” Bull said after a moment. 

“You’re going to think it’s laughably stupid.” Dorian said. 

“Try me.”

“‘Have to go see about my family.” Dorian groaned, “and _he’s_ coming.” 

Bull laughed. “You were right. That is stupid.” He looked at the bottle for a moment, then held it out for Dorian after all. 

Dorian took it and quickly gulped down another hard sip. 

"It’s stupid, because you're only making yourself miserable. The way I hear it, you were the one who turned him down." 

"How in the blighted hell did you know tha-" Leila. "I'm going to kill her." 

"Before you do, you should know that it's been more than obvious. The inquisitor wears his heart on his sleeve. Plus, Cole reads all our minds whenever we go anywhere. It’s cryptic and creepy, but if you read between the lines it's pretty obvious that all you two think about is each other." 

"Well, perhaps he should find something else to think about. He is the Inquisitor, after all." Dorian responded grumpily. 

\----

Dorian and the Inquisitor made their way toward Redcliffe together early the next morning. It was the first time they had done anything alone together in quite some time, and Dorian was having a surprisingly pleasant time, considering the reasons for the trip. 

Conversation flowed easily. He told the Inquisitor about the instruction he’d been giving Leila, though he left out his evenings with Bull. The Inquisitor seemed pleased that his inner circle were getting along. Taren told Dorian about the trip to the storm coast, and how Vivienne and Blackwall had bickered the whole time, and they shared a laugh over Cole’s habit of peeking in minds - though Taren didn’t expand on what Cole had seen. They also discussed books, magical theory, and whether or not they thought they’d be able to get a good drink in at the tavern in Redcliffe before meeting with this mysterious “retainer”. 

Maybe friendship wasn’t so bad, Dorian found himself thinking. Yes, Taren’s hair blew wildly in the wind like long summer grass and yes, he carried himself with the effortless grace of a charmed prince and his smile warmed Dorian’s whole body, but being able to just talk was good too. 

They arrived at the Tavern too late to get a drink before the prearranged meeting time, which was a disappointment. Dorian steeled himself, perhaps it was better that he be completely sober, anyway. Taren led the way to the tavern entrance and stopped, just before pulling open the door. He turned to Dorian with that genuinely concerned look that only he could make feel kind, and not foolish. 

“Are you ready?” He asked.

Dorian nodded, “let’s go meet this retainer, shall we?” 

Taren pulled open the door. 

\----

The tavern was empty. The pair looked around, uneasy; Taren readied his staff. Then, out of a dark corner, came a figure. A tall man approached, dark haired and stern faced, he had the posture and the penchant for dramatic entrances that could only belong to one person. 

“Father? Of course.” Dorian remarked. Taren’s staff lowered, but only slightly. 

The spat began almost immediately. Dorian was angry, inflamed, it seemed, by his father’s very presence. And though his father shrank from him, he snapped back at every remark, sparring with the accusations of his son. 

The inquisitor interrupted the dispute. “You went through all this to get Dorian here, at least you can talk to him.” 

“Yes father, talk to me. Let me hear how mystified you are by my anger!” Exclaimed Dorian.

Taren took a hesitant step back, his back to a wall. “Perhaps I should leave you two to work this out…” He began, feeling conspicuous. Dorian spun in place. 

“Oh no you don’t,” Dorian’s eyes were on him now, still narrowed and bright with anger. “I want a witness, I want someone to hear the truth.” His words were venomous, dripping with contempt, and though the venom wasn’t directed at the Inquisitor, some got on him, anyway. Taren took a breath, and concern settled into his features.

Dorian didn’t pause. If there was one thing he knew to do well, it was speaking his mind. “I prefer the company of men, my father disapproves.” He explained, some calmness regaining hold as he took in Taren's concern.

Taren did pause, not for lack of understanding, but out of pure surprise. “The company of men?” He repeated, less a question than a display of being utterly miffed. 

Dorian’s temper was too short to truck with the Inquisitor’s confusion. “Did I stutter? Men, and the company thereof. As in Sex. Surely you’ve heard of it.” He retaliated quickly. 

Taren regained his footing with that, and almost laughed. “I’ve more than heard of it, actually.” He noted, with just the faintest hint of a smile.

It was enough for Dorian to re-center, flashing Taren a look that was almost apologetic, he returned in jest. “Now I'm trying to think how they’ll write that verse of the chant.” He said, turning as he did to return his attention to his father, who now looked on with a new air of judgment. 

“I should have known that's what this was about.” Said Magister Pavus, and Taren felt that the Magister’s eye was more on him than on his son. Dorian’s father squinted, looking him over. It was a look Taren had grown rather used to; the same of those who had first seen him in Haven, after the conclave, and of Chantry mothers in Val Rayeaux, and diplomats visiting Skyhold. The look of doubt, suspicion, disapproval - all tinged with an air of being unimpressed, that tended to linger over his ears. He stiffened. 

Dorian’s anger was back in force. “No.” He cut the look down with a word. “No, you don’t get to make those assumptions. You know nothing about the Inquisitor.”

Behind him, Taren’s heart ached low in his belly. There was such high regard in Dorian’s voice, defending him. It almost hurt more, having this anger on his side. 

The Magister and his son resumed arguing. The father, defensive, insisted he had not come to argue, yet Dorian would not have it, shutting him down on each front. Taren’s confusion at the situation did not abide, though Dorian explained the Tevinter sensibilities of his own family - to keep deviancy hidden, to marry right and to breed. 

“That’s what all this is about, who you sleep with?” He finally asked, and now it was his turn to eye the Magister with scrutiny. 

“That’s not all it’s about.” Dorian returned to his father, taking several steps toward him. Dorian’s father was tall, but Dorian was taller, broader, and the Magister, whose posture was already wavering, shrank further under his gaze. 

“Dorian please, if you would just listen to me-” he began. Dorian stopped him. 

“Why? So you can spout more convenient lies?” Another interjection was cut off by Dorian before it could become more than a sound. “ _He_ taught me to hate blood magic. The resort of a weak mind, those were _his_ words, but what was the first thing you did, the second your precious heir refused to play pretend for the rest of his life? You tried to _change_ me.” 

Taren’s eyes had been flitting from father to son with each bitter jab, but that one caught his attention. He looked at Dorian, watching the man wait for his father to sputter through a response.

“I was only trying to do what was best for you.” Pleaded the Magister, which was not good enough. Dorian’s fist clenched as he took a step back. 

“You wanted what was best for you! Your fucking legacy! Anything for that.” He retaliated, stopping just short of storming out of the tavern entirely, but his voice broke over the words. 

There was an apologetic quality to the father, despite his protestation at Dorian’s anger. Taren felt he had waded beyond his depths, but was compelled to steady emotions, as he so often was called to do. He looked over both men, making his way to Dorian as he considered the Magister’s defeated expression. He took a breath. 

“Don’t leave it like this.” He said to Dorian. Then, quietly enough that his father wouldn’t hear, “you’ll never forgive yourself.” 

The note of experience in the Inquisitor’s voice was what brought Dorian pause. He sighed, turning back to his father. “Tell me why you came.”

“If I had known that I would drive you to the Inquisition -” Began Magister Pavus. Dorian cut him off once more. 

“You didn’t. I joined the Inquisition because it was the right thing to do. Once, I had a father who would have known that.” He spat, ready again to leave. 

“Once, I had a son who trusted me.” Dorian stopped at the words, brow furrowed and fists clenched for what he must have expected to come next. “A trust I betrayed.” Dorian’s fists loosened. He looked back. “I only wanted to talk to him, to hear his voice again. To ask him to forgive me.”

“Funny way of getting to it.” Dorian muttered under his breath, but his face softened. He looked to the Inquisitor, who responded with a slight nod and a quick departure from the tavern. 

\----

Back at Skyhold, Taren felt a conflicting mix of emotions. Admiration for Dorian for getting away from such a mess of a family life, guilt at being the one to drag him back into it, and also fear that Dorian wouldn’t have wanted him there, had he known what was going to happen. But most of all, above all that, he felt the fire of anger. Taren valued family, he valued blood bonds and believed in a strong sense of love and loyalty to one's own. He was, after all, Dalish - no matter how he disagreed with some of their ways, he had also never known anything but love and support from the clan that had been his family. Dorian hadn't had that sort of love, he realised, and something about that realization made Taren _really_ want to punch something.

Instead, he paced. Then he stared idly at the pages of a book, then paced some more. He had left Dorian at the tavern to continue hashing things out with his father. Following the first conversation, Dorian had insisted that the Inquisitor return without him, letting him out, as he had put it, of “further melodrama to be brought on by his estranged father”. Their voices had been quieter when Taren had left, but now he was feeling impatient. 

Dorian returned later that evening, and Taren made an effort to not appear as though he had been waiting. He found Dorian at nightfall, in their usual place, a bottle of brandy already opened and flowing. He approached tentatively, not sitting until Dorian gestured for him to join. 

Dorian poured Taren a glass of brandy. “He says we’re alike. Too much pride.” Dorian began. 

Taren took a drink, and listened. 

Dorian talked thoughtfully, describing the rest of the afternoon with his father; his pride, his politics, his request of a second chance. “I'm not sure that I can forgive him.” Dorian said finally, with a shake of his head. He slumped a little in his chair, pouring himself another glass. 

“He tried to change you?” 

“Out of desperation. I wouldn’t put on a show; marry the girl, keep everything unsavory private and locked away.” He almost chuckled, and took another drink of brandy. “Selfish I suppose, not wanting to spend the rest of my life screaming on the inside. He was going to do a blood ritual. Alter my mind, make me... acceptable.” 

Taren didn’t know what to say. He thought of all the rituals he knew to be capable of altering a mind - possession, mind control powered by suffering and demonic energy. He thought of Leila, eyes filling with red smoke as something else wrestled with her mind, and of tranquil mages devoid of all emotion. He didn’t think such a ritual was possible, not without painful consequences. “That’s awful.” He managed. 

Dorian nodded. “Part of me has always hoped he didn’t really want to go through with it.” Dorian sighed. “He’s a good man, my father. Deep down. He taught me that principle is important. He cares for me in his way, he just won’t ever change.”

“Maybe if you keep working at it, keep talking…” Taren made the suggestion with softness, already feeling he had more than overstepped. 

“It was a start, at least.” Dorian said before taking another drink. He grimaced as he swallowed. “Maker knows what you must think of me, after that whole display”

“I don’t think any less of you.” Taren said, quickly. Dorian looked up at him. “More, if anything.” Taren finished, his words genuine, and gaze penetrating. 

Dorian kissed him this time, without even bothering to check if anyone was looking. Dorian kissed Taren the way he had wanted to weeks ago, falling into it, breathing in the pine, enjoying the softness of his lips. Dorian kissed him, and it was all over. He was done trying not to want what he wanted, trying to convince himself that it was better he push the Inquisitor’s advances away, because he just didn’t fucking care. Taren smelled faintly of pine, his lips were soft and his hair was wild and his eyes were startling, and Dorian was kissing him, and that made the whole awful ordeal of a day feel okay again. 

Taren smiled at him when they pulled apart. 

“You teasing bastard.” He said lightly. 

Dorian smiled back. “It really _is_ a sickness.”


	7. Banter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An interlude. Probably takes place in crestwood. Banter for travels and in between the killing of things. We finally hear from Solas. Sorry solasmancers, but we aren't big egghead fans in this house.

“Your choice of new friends puzzles me, Leila.” Solas said. 

“What?”

“You escape slavery at the hands of a Tevinter magister, and the first friend you make is another Tevinter mage? That doesn’t put you off?”

Leila shrugged. “Dorian’s not a magister.”

“Thank you!” Dorian interrupted, “and, incidentally, he’s also right here.”

“Well, perhaps she teaches you something about the atrocities committed by your countryfolk.” Solas amended. 

“Is that really what you think of me?” Dorian was suddenly furious, “that I’m just some ignorant Tevinter with no concept of right and wrong, that I look at _actual torture_ and think ‘my yes, that sounds like a jolly good thing to subject another living being to!’ -” He was going to go on, but Leila cut him off. 

“No, he’s right.” She said, bite in her voice. “Slavery fucking sucks _._ ” She turned to face the rest of the group, “we all clear on that?”

“I’ll make a note.” Varric replied, hiding his amusement.

“There you go Solas, all educated on the evils of slavery. Can we move on?” 

\----

“Have I offended you?”

“Me? No.” Leila replied. “Dorian, maybe.”

“Par for the course at this point, really.” Dorian said. 

“If you take issue with the opinions I voice I would be willing to discuss them.”  
  
Leila let out a short laugh. “No, I don’t take issue with your opinions. I think we agree on most things. Slavery - bad, freedom - good, Templars - oppressive, the Chantry - also oppressive. Am I on the right track?”

“I’m not sure I’d put it all so simply.”

“Wouldn’t you?” 

“What do you mean?”

“Simple judgments are kind of your thing. I’m a former slave, so I’m one thing, Dorian’s a Tevinter mage so he’s another, Bull’s Qunari, so you think you’ve got a handle on him, too. I could go on.” 

“I come to my conclusions from experience.” 

“Fine, sure, most people from most places are assholes. I get it. I’d just rather not be thought of in terms of what and where I’ve been, you know? What happened _to_ me is not who I am.”

“Of course, understood. I apologize.”

\----

“So, I heard you were in Kirkwall, Sparrow?” Varric asked.

Leila laughed at the nickname, “Sparrow?”

“You’re flighty. And Nightengale was taken.”

“Not bad. Yes, I was, for a while. Years, actually. But I got out before, uh, you know...”

“Before everything went to shit?”

“Yeah, that. Though things weren’t exactly stellar before, either.”

Varric laughed, “no, they definitely were not. I do still miss it though. You ever stop by The Hanged Man?”

Leila shook her head. “A couple times, but I never left Darktown much.”

\----

“So, you and the ‘Vint, huh? Good for you. Though you know, you did have other options.” Bull said with a wink. 

“Really, Bull? I wasn’t sure you were aware of that.”

\----

“Hey, new girl, you owe me 20 gold.” Said Bull.

“What? No I do not.” Leila protested. 

“My money was on a week. Pay up.” He replied. 

“Oh no, you don’t just get to change the terms like that. Nothing’s official.” 

“Oh trust me, you lost this one.” 

“No she’s right, you don’t win til someone shares a tent.” Said Sera.

“What are you all arguing about?” The Inquisitor interrupted the dispute. 

“Nothing!” Responded the three, in unison. 

\----

“Hey, Varric? I might have lied before.” Said Leila.

“Oh? This should be good.”

“I, um, actually hit up the Hanged Man pretty often, just not as a patron, exactly. Drunk people are really easy to rob.”

Varric laughed. “You’re lucky one of us didn’t kill you, if you were banditing around there.”

“Right. Well, promise you won’t kill me now?”

“Oh you didn’t!” Sera shouted, deciphering what Leila was about to admit. 

“I may have.” Leila confirmed. 

“You robbed _me_?” Varric laughed. 

“Well, I didn’t take much. Just some loose coin and… a first edition of one of your books.” 

“Which one?” Asked Cassandra, suddenly interested. 

“The second Swords and Shields novel.”

“You don’t still have it, do you?” Cassandra was trying to hide her eagerness. 

Leila laughed. “No, I left it when I left the city.” 

Cassandra looked sad at the thought. 

“If it helps, that book helped teach quite a few orphans how to read.” Leila said. 

“Are you serious?” Varric choked through even more laughter. 

“Yeah, there’s a bunch of apostate kids with a full vocabulary of dirty words running around thanks to that book.” She said, then caught herself. “Or, I guess, there were. Maybe not, now.”

“Right. Shit.” Said Varric, sobering. 


	8. The Best Tales have Griffons in Them

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kind of a shorter one. Mostly it's Alistair being cute. Because who doesn't like Alistair being cute?

Cassandra was angry with Varric. This was not new, exactly. Angry with Varric had been more or less Cassandra’s baseline state the entire time that the dwarf had been in her orbit, but not as she was now. Outside, she fought the wooden dummies and targets of the training grounds with determined, fast blows. As her sword struck, she focused on her breathing, her posture, allowing her frustrations to fall away. Yet, when she paused, there it was. Months spent in uncertainty, weeks of questions, of having Leliana organize searches, and Josephine writing letters. And all that time, Varric had lied. 

The world ending was not up to him. Or to the Champion! 

She struck a blow at another training dummy. 

And if he had just sent a letter!

Another strike. 

If he had just been honest about what he knew. 

She took several deep breaths, aligning her spine and her hips, noting the slight bend in her knees. She struck again. 

But this whole time he kept secrets while claiming to want to help! 

She grunted, pushing her full weight into a target. It broke. 

Why? When so much was at stake? Maybe she could have understood, if he had been honest. But the blighted dwarf just had to keep his secrets. 

She took another few deep breaths, and picked up the broken target. And in turning to bring it inside, she noticed the Inquisitor. He stood by, looking equal parts impressed and unnerved. 

“I’m taking that out of your pay, you know.” He quipped, seeing the flash of embarrassment on Cassandra’s face.

She shook her head, not in the mood for jokes, and walked past him. He followed her inside. 

“Something wrong?” He asked, hiding a smile. 

Cassandra had grown to rather like the Inquisitor, though they weren’t close. He was honest, good-natured and diligent. And he had never ceased seeking her council, even as his inner circle grew. He checked in regularly, was easy to talk to, and so his asking was all it took. 

“Varric. He _knew_ about Corypheus, what he might be. And he said he had no clue. No idea where the Champion was. Yet now he reveals her? Why would he lie?” 

His affairs with Dorian had been busy in his mind, but Cassandra was right to be focused on the issue of the Champion. That was, after all, who Varric had revealed would be arriving in Skyhold the next day. Varric, for his part, was apologetic for the suddenness and the flair of it all. It seemed Cassandra didn’t trust his humility. 

\----

Taren had read Varric’s book on what happened in Kirkwall. Actually, he had read it three times - the first being long before the conclave. He had picked it up years ago, back in the Free Marches. There had been commotion at the time among the Dalish clans of that area, as elven refugees from Kirkwall’s alienage fled into the clans or, failing that, banditry. His own clan had felt the shattering of Kirkwall’s Chantry in the loss of three hunters, killed by fleeing humans that the hunters had attempted to keep from their borders. The chaos of those days scared everyone, and the clan returned to a more mobile lifestyle than what they had previously enjoyed. Keeper Deshanna Istimaethoriel had tackled the uncertainty of the time by staying among the people, but she had encouraged Taren, then her First, to learn as much as he could of the politics of the human’s world that were now affecting them. The book, when it had been released, was illuminating. 

The second time he read _The Tale of the Campion_ was in Haven, when suddenly finding himself at the heart of an unprecedented global catastrophe, and face to face with the author, Taren had bought the book from the vendor, Seggrit, at an inflated price. He had not told Varric this, but overnight he had poured over the book, still in disbelief that he was becoming a part of its aftermath.

Now, in his chambers in Skyhold, Taren again kept a candle burning late into the night as he re-read the thrilling chapters that he had once assumed to be exaggerated. With all that had happened, he was no longer so sure. He finished the book in one sitting, and for a brief moment considered that he should ask to have it signed. The thought brought about a twinge of nervousness that Varric would have laughed at. Still, he decided that tomorrow, when he went to meet Hawke, he would bring it along. Just in case.  
  


\----

Hawke was almost exactly as Varric had described in the book: tall, light haired and bright eyed, with an air of carelessness about her that was almost dangerous. She stood looking out at Skyhold’s small training grounds from the battlements, the sun bright in her hair, with Varric at her side. Mad Maddie, he called her, as only Varric could; to the rest of the world she was Madeline Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall. 

The Inquisitor did his best to be Inquisitorial, standing straight and diving directly into matters at hand. Talk of missions and work to be done quelled his nerves, and soon he was arranging a meeting with her contact in Crestwood, and she was leaving as quickly as she had arrived. When she made her departure, the book was still unsigned. Taren remembered it much later, and cursed himself. 

\----

There were undead in Crestwood. Progress toward meeting Hawke’s contact was slowed as the Inquisition made camp, and the Inquisitor’s companions took turns in aiding him to clear a path through the flooded ruins and dismal fields around the village. The Inquisitor could not deny his nature, and for two weeks indulged the mystery of the town’s rifts, and the undead that haunted them; claiming an old keep for the Inquisition, and even helping a trapped spirit along the way. 

Still, they had time, and the Inquisition was gaining influence as it helped. Leila was happy to practice putting her new skills to use, and many of the others were glad to spend their days mindlessly killing undead, as opposed to the complicated fights with cultists or excursions into trapped dungeons they’d been used to. And so it was that Varric, Cassandra, Blackwall and Leila joined the Inquisitor when he finally came to the smuggler’s den where Hawke’s Warden contact had promised to meet them. 

Varric was the first person to speak upon the warden’s reveal. “Holy shit." He said. " _You're_ Maddie's Warden friend?”

He was joined in flabbergasted blurting by Leila. “You’re - I mean you’re _Alistair_.” 

He was scruffier than he had been in Kirkwall, older than he had been in Ferelden, and his eyes lonelier, less blue, than they appeared in the tapestries and paintings and novels depicting the heroes of the Fifth Blight, but there was no mistaking the smile. A man who had almost been King, and thrown it away, a hero and a legend, second only to one.

Alistair smiled and gave a half shrug. “At your service.” He said. 

The once-fated prince didn’t waste time with pleasantries, explaining the dire situation at hand. Wardens gathering in the Western Approach, one final charge against the darkspawn, the calling of a new blight; nothing good. Blackwall shifted uncomfortably, and Varric noticed. 

\----

As the Inquisitor readied his people to respond to this new threat, both the Warden and the Champion of Kirkwall came to Skyhold. Alistair brought a Mabari with him, a great hound he called Griffon, and he spent most of his time playing and hunting with the beast in the valley outside the fortress, away from onlookers. Otherwise he hovered around the aviary - either for the purpose of waiting for messages or annoying Lelilana, it was hard to be sure. Madeline Hawke, on the other hand, quickly became a fixture of the tavern, alongside a newly invigorated Varric. Alistair had determined a date for the Warden ritual which corresponded with the coming full moon, at the end of the month. It gave the Inquisition time, and it had given Varric something he hadn’t expected to get while the war was still on: a moment of peace to reconnect with a friend. 

The dwarf had always been boastful, talkative, and good for a drink; but this height of spirit was new. He and the Champion could rarely be found apart, nor without a deck of cards between them. They began a sort of unofficial Wicked Grace tournament, and it seemed that every Inquisition member was worse off financially because of it. 

Alternating groups of people frequented the games: Sera, Dorian, the Iron Bull, almost always; Krem and the rest of the chargers on any night that they weren’t having a game of their own; Cullen, more often than he would care to admit. 

Cole played once before being barred from the game for inexplicable but definite cheating; Leila joined from time to time, distant and shy at the start, vocal and drunk by the end - and a sore loser. She tended only to lend her presence to those games where the Commander did not. 

Vivienne played only when she needed to show off, always cleaning house; only when Josephine played did she lose. Cassandra never stayed late enough to play a full game, though she kept insisting that she would, next time. Blackwall played, but folded early as well, citing a need to hold on to his coin - his hands were always particularly unlucky, it seemed. Even Solas played on occasion, though he didn’t drink, and seemed to tire of the conversation as others did. 

The Inquisitor, however, had remained too busy, and that excuse was honest. Not only were the days leading up to the Inquisition’s move upon the Western Approach filled with long hours for everyone, but negotiations with Orlais had Josephine in meetings with him constantly. An invite to the Winter Palace had come at the least opportune time; the Inquisition had accepted before Alistair had revealed the warden plot, and now both matters were approaching simultaneously. She attempted, exhaustively, to explain to him “the Grand Game” of impossible social nuance that apparently could make or break negotiations with Orlesian powers. And Taren found that, mainly, it gave him a headache. 

\----

Spy networks, body language and masks. The Inquisitor dutifully tried to take it all in. He spoke to Leliana, who reluctantly told him stories of bards in Orlais; she warned him to be careful, to always be aware of what allies and enemies said behind closed doors. Sometimes, Alistair was there when they spoke, and Leliana seemed to speak as comfortably in his presence as she did when he wasn’t there. Taren noticed a familiar rapport between them; when Alistair was around, he interrupted, making joking comments. And Leliana scolded him, but she also laughed. 

Some evenings, Taren found time to talk with both of them, though he tried not to pry. Alistair was, somehow, easy to talk to. There wasn’t a person alive who didn’t know who he was, even in Orlais. The mystery and heroism of the Wardens, of all those who stopped the Fifth Blight in Ferelden, followed him. Troops, mercenaries, mages and merchants in the fortress all whispered about him, and he pretended not to notice. Storied figures had always been a part of the Inquisition - the Right hand of the Divine, and the Left, the Nightingale of Orlais, had reputations of their own. And commanding the troops was the famed Night Captain of Kirkwall, but under the shadow of Corypheus and his rift in the sky, these reputations were little. Now, the Inquisition was gaining power, winning battles, making judgements. The number of people under Taren’s command had grown, and adding Alistair and the Champion of Kirkwall to his circle of influence invited new talk. 

There had been books written about the Blight, of course, both factual and romantic. But by far the most told stories were the ones in rumours and tavern songs; of the Hero of Ferelden who kept the prince from the throne, the heroic slaying of dragons, the disappearance of both heroes and the dark, if valiant, reputation of the Grey Wardens.

Alistair didn’t comment on the rumours, though Leliana sometimes teased him. Leliana had always been distant, preoccupied, and too intimidating for even Sera to prank. The Inquisitor had never quite shaken the image of her, aged and tortured, in the magical time alteration that hadn’t been. That experience, out of time as it was, had faded like a strange dream, but the memory left its imprint. Yet, when Alistair poked fun at her she responded with playful banter. She was softer, with him around, and more than once Taren found himself climbing the stairs to the aviary with a question, only to find the pair deep in reminiscent conversation, their voices low, but not unhappy. 

“He could have been King of Ferelden, you know.” Leliana commented once, a smirk on her face after Alistiar, across the room, had tripped over some cages and startled a flock of ravens. He was currently swearing loudly and jumping about, waving one arm to shoo the birds that noisily flapped around him, and covering his head with the other. 

Taren couldn’t help but laugh. “Everyone knows that.” He said. “Although, now to see him…” 

Leliana shared in his laugh. “The stories get it wrong, though. She never kept him from it, she told him to take his rightful place. He was the one who refused; to be with her.” She said, her tone more serious. 

“You disapprove?” Taren noticed the change. 

“No, Anora is a fine Queen. And I am glad that they took their chance, a chance to be happy. It was the least that either of them deserved...” She looked at Taren, something knowing in her expression. “He still thinks he would have been bad at it, however, and he is wrong about that.”

\----

“You get all the credit, you know.” Leiliana said, referring to a letter which had come from one of the Inquisition's aristocratic investments, an affluent Orlesian house that had recently pledged its support at the news of the Inquisition’s acquiescence of the famed Warden to its cause. 

Alistair shook his head. “You can have it if you want. Wait. Wouldn’t that be bad for your sort of business?”

“Don’t pretend. You love the attention.”

As Taren joined them, Leliana flipped through a pile of papers and handed him some letters. More reports on politicians and their spies for Josephine to quiz him on, undoubtedly. 

“I’m just happy that you’ve taken some of the attention off of me.” He said, with a nod toward Alistair. 

“Don’t get too comfortable, I’m not going anywhere near this ridiculous ball you’re headed to.” 

“But I would so love to see you dance.” Leliana cut in. 

“Hey now, I will dance your feet clean off, Sister. It’s just the fancy talk, rules, secrets, lies, and backstabbing that I’m keeping out of. Maker, no thank you.” 

"I'm with him.” Taren agreed, leaning against the wall.

“See, Nightingale? Your game’s no fun.” 

Leliana scoffed. “He’ll be fine,” she said, referring to the Inquisitor, “and if he’s not, we can take care of it.” She winked. 

“You’re creepy.” Alistair said, deadpan. 

Leliana walked off with a wave of her hand. “You have two left feet.” She called over her shoulder as she went. 

“People do tell all sorts of stories about you. Killing Loghain, slaying archedemons, running away with the Grey Wardens, and so on.” Taren noted, pulling up a place to sit at the table where Alistair sat studying maps. “But Queen Anora sent a friendly letter. And Cullen’s troops seem to think you’ll slay Corypheus’ dragon.” 

Alistair ran his fingers through his hair. “I definitely don’t deserve credit for the archdemon.” He said. “As for running away, what can I say? I’m a Grey Warden, not a politician. Anora is a lot of things, but she isn’t her father. The truth is I didn’t want to be King any more than Ferelden wanted me to be King.” He said, with one of his signature half-shrugs. 

“I thought you won the landsmeet.” Said Taren. 

“Talani won the landsmeet. And Arl Eamon. No, I couldn’t do what you do.” The Warden shook his head. “You’re a lot like her, really. Not - uh - not because you’re an elf. Or, a, ah, mage. Actually you do sort of have similar noses... but that isn't what I mean - ” Alistair laughed a short, hesitant laugh. “Great people skills, see? Really good Kingly material, right here.” He cleared his throat. “I mean, responsible. Staying with the Wardens meant staying with her, and I wouldn’t give that up for anything. But it was also much more responsible than putting me in charge.” He chuckled. 

“You really believe she’s still out there? That she’ll find something?” Taren asked, noting the way Alistair always spoke about the hero - always bright, never in past-tense. 

“I have to.” He looked to the great dog which followed him everywhere, now curled up asleep under the table where they sat. “Anyway, Griffy would know.” He said, ruffling the dog’s ears as he did. She made a few happy noises in her sleep before opening her eyes to look up at him, and both stood to leave. “Hawke and Varric are having another game later. You know, a night off now and then probably wouldn’t kill you. Probably. Though, this is Madeline Hawke we're talking about...” He chuckled at himself and headed for the stairs with Griffon at his heels, and Taren sighed as he dug into the pile of letters Leliana had given him. 


	9. Wicked Grace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time for a party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> notes for ratings and other stuff - this chapter is not explicit, but we're getting into mature waters. Chapter includes drinking, gambling, (consensual!!) sex while drinking, general merriment.

Taren had few evenings to spare, between meetings with Dagna and Cullen to make preparations for marching on the approach, and with Josephine and Lelilana for the ball. Occasionally, he found time to join Dorian in their ritual of late night study in the library. Much more hadn’t happened between them, since their kiss following that one vulnerable trip to Redcliffe. Not much time had passed, all told, but recent Inquisition business made the days seem long. He smiled, finding Dorian in the library, long days left him with a need for easy conversation. 

Dorian was fascinated by Taren’s relaying of Josephine’s instructions for the ball. Taren admired his enthusiasm, and marvelled jealously at the way talk of secret languages and cryptic gossip seemed to so easily make sense for him. 

Their hands touched, at times, and long pauses in conversation were sometimes interrupted by bouts of kissing, letting go, just momentarily, to something other than all the responsibilities and threats at his back. But Taren’s time was never enough, and his mind was always quick to pull him back. Most days, he barely saw Dorian at all, unless it was in the field. Dorian had begun to volunteer to come out with the Inquisitor and his party at any opportunity, even into the dankness of the flooded fields of Crestwood, and the Inquisitor made a point of leaving Skyhold to close rifts as often as he could, eager to get away from talk of nobles and important names, and their histories of lineages which swam in his mind. There were more Orlesians at Skyhold now, and though they came in support - to work, and to meet with Josephine, providing aid - they also came with haughtiness, looking long at the Inquisitor, whispering and tsk-ing to one another when they believed he could not hear. 

\----

“Well there you are, your Inquisitorialness, I have been searching all day for you." Varric found Taren in the healer’s tent, both helping and hiding, as was his way. 

“If Josephine sent you, I’m not here.” The Inquisitor replied, and Varric chuckled. 

“Actually, it turns out today is Sera’s birthday. She didn’t want anyone to know, but I have my ways.” Varric grinned. “Hawke and I are having another game, there’s going to be cake. You should come. Take one night off, what can it hurt?” The dwarf’s look was sly, and his tone encouraging. 

“Alright, you have a point. Just tell me that we’re all going to wait in the dark until she arrives, and then jump out at her. She glued the pages in my book together last week.” 

“Aha,” Said Varric, grin spreading, “she will absolutely hate that. You see, this is why you are the man in charge.” 

\----

The Inquisitor organized the cards in his hand absently, his mind still elsewhere. Beside him, Dorian pulled up a chair and cracked his knuckles.

“Cullen!” Dorian called out to the Commander, who was sitting across the table and a few seats down from him, “ready to add another small fortune to my estate?” 

Cullen retaliated with a challenging look. “I’m not sure how you did it, Dorian, but I have my eye on you.” He replied, squinting. 

Dorian flashed him a perfect smile. “By all means, my treat.” He said with a wink, and Cullen’s cheeks went slightly pink. Dorian turned his attention to Taren, then, with a look of surprise and genuine gladness. 

“You came!” He exclaimed, his leg lightly brushing up against Taren’s beneath the table, “I was starting to worry that you didn’t _do_ fun.” 

“I wouldn’t miss this.” Taren responded, snapping back to the present and smiling at Dorian. “And I am plenty fun, you’ll see.” He set his first three cards out with a smirk. 

“Is that a promise?” Dorian teased back. 

The game began, and Josephine, ever attentive to proper courtesy, raised her glass and spoke.

“I propose a toast,” she began, “first: to Sera, may you live with the grace of the Maker for many more years to come!” Sera stuck out her tongue, but smiled. “And to the Inquisition, may we see these days through with joy and laughter, and return a little light to the world.”

Glasses chimed and clinked together and, among the shuffling and dealing of cards, chatter and easy banter filled the room. 

As the game went on, Varric and the Champion rotated one another off, telling stories of adventure and daring from the Deep Roads to the high seas. Even the Iron Bull couldn’t top their tales, and Sera couldn’t keep from laughing at every turn, her drinks emptying as quickly as her hand. There was cake, as promised, and plenty of drink as well. Bets were made and coin was lost, and all were laughing, talking, and singing through the night. Madeline Hawke surpassed reputation, a flashy grin for every card she drew, impossible to call on a bluff, intimidating in a stand. 

The party was a success. Sera was properly drunk, and she thanked Josephine profusely for the cakes as she horded them at her end of the table, among some other small gifts which had been thoughtfully thrown together for Varric’s last-minute party. Blackwall at some point was convinced to sing, and he and Alistair managed a few renditions of old soldiers’ drinking songs. Cullen gambled badly, losing more and more as he drank, down to the very clothes off his back - much to the amusement of all, but especially to Leila, who at some point seemed to actually take pity on the former Templar, and after his trousers had been lost, the two played as a team. Cole was there, though he didn’t play cards so much as commentate on the action, and mostly he managed to comment only on those actions already taken. He hummed along happily to the tunes of Blackwall’s folk songs, and would sometimes disappear only to reappear with more refreshments, something that no one questioned. For once, all members of Taren’s strange little team seemed to be getting on with ease, happy to put aside politics and talk of world-ending threats for just one night of simple revelry. Taren allowed his own mind to clear, focusing instead on Varric and the Champion’s tall tales, and on proving his prowess at cards. He found himself laughing often, and under the table Dorian’s hand often found his own.

Toward the end of the night, the game grew to close competition between Taren and the Champion herself. Taren had done well, amassing a fair pile of coin after beating Dorian’s last hand, but he bowed out of the last round early, saving his winnings from Madeline Hawke, who inevitably lived up to her title - a Champion in all things, it seemed. They shook hands and clanked mugs of ale together yet again, and the party wound itself down, easy and joyful until the last drink. 

Everyone had come together for this game, sensing the precipice of something foul looming, and staving off the coming darkness with all the cheer they could muster. Sera’s birthday was clearly an excuse, Taren realised, but it was a good one. 

\----

The Inquisitor was stumbling after the game, and laughter seemed to sputter uncontrollably forth from his lips with every false step. Dorian, swept up by his favourite kind of confidence - the aged, Antivan kind - wedged an arm under the Inquisitor’s shoulders. Taren leaned on him, cheeks red and warm. 

“Sorry ‘bout your coin, Dorian.” He giggled, unapologetically. Dorian laughed too. 

“I can’t believe you debased yourself like that,” Dorian teased, “and now look at you, stumbling out of a parlour game, a common miscreant like the rest of us. What would the devout followers of Andraste’s Herald say if they could see you now?”

Taren groaned, but even his frustration at the title was softened by boozy amusement. “Don’t call me that.” He said.

“My apologies, Inquisitor.” Dorian replied. They passed through the main hall now, and Taren seemed to regain his footing. He straightened a little, turning to look at Dorian as they walked, still linked together. 

“Don’t call me that either.” He said. 

Dorian stopped at the throne, nodding in agreement, but looking up at it as if to tell him that it would be hard not to. 

“Nightcap?” Taren offered, with a nod that took Dorian’s attention away from the mighty seat of judgment, and toward the door to his quarters. Then he kissed Dorian lightly, a gentle and inviting reminder that Dorian had more or less stopped caring that he was the Inquisitor, anyway. 

“How could I refuse?” 

\----

Upstairs, Dorian admired the expansive space of the Inquisitor’s quarters for the first time, marvelling at its emptiness. 

“Just a bed and a desk? Inquisitor, you should really do something about this space.” He commented with a shake of his head.

“Stop calling me that." Taren called back. He was outside now, the double doors to his balcony thrown open to let in the cool night breeze. 

Dorian joined him. Taren stood leaning over the balcony wall, his face turned toward the stars. 

“The bed was actually due to Josephine’s insistence. I tried very hard to convince her just to let me have some soft stuff put on the floor.” He chuckled, and Dorian looked at him bewildered. 

“You think I’m crazy, don’t you?” Taren responded to the look without having to even turn his head to see it. 

“Let’s just call it _refreshingly eccentric_.” Dorian proposed. 

Taren took a deep breath of the night air, a smile still full on his face. He turned to Dorian still smiling, and before Dorian could think another thought about his beautiful lips, they were locked with his again. Pulling him deeper, filling his body with an excitement so fierce he felt he was almost vibrating. Taren pulled away, still smiling, and in a few floating movements was back inside, picking a bottle and two glasses from his cluttered desk. Dorian followed him inside, his hands still slightly shaking. 

Taren poured two very small glasses, just enough to toast, and offered one up to Dorian. He took it, tapping it against Taren’s glass with a light clink. 

“Sylaise’enaste.” Said Taren as the glasses met. He took a small sip, while Dorian swallowed his mouthful in one. The drink was sweet, and not especially strong. It had lingering notes of berries and herbs, and a lightness to it like an Orlesian sparkling wine. Dorian thought it must be Elvish, and regretted immediately that he had drained the glass. 

“Sylaise is a goddess, isn’t she?” 

Taren offered the bottle of liqueur to Dorian, and took a seat on the edge of his bed, nodding. “Of the hearth,” he said, “probably the only one you’d want to have a drink with.” 

“In Tevinter we say ‘ _manaveris via!_ ’; roughly, long live life.” He poured another small glass and raised it up again before taking a sip, and joining the Inquisitor on his bedside. 

Taren kissed him again, lightly this time. “I haven’t had a night like this in a long time,” he said wistfully, “thanks.” 

The pair finished their drinks, setting the empty glasses down on the floor, and there wasn’t much talking after that. 

Taren kissed Dorian with full, hard presses to his lips, neck, trailing to his collarbones and tracing along his jaw. Dorian kissed him back with his hands in his hair, fingers tangled in loose rust-coloured curls. 

It wasn’t until both of their shirts had come off, and Taren’s hands were around his body, pulling him closer, skin warm against his own, that Dorian paused and a troubled thought interrupted the perfection of being drunk in the Inquisitor’s arms, in the Inquisitor’s bed. He pulled back. 

“Before this goes any further, I should probably tell you something.” He managed to get out, hesitancy in every word. Of all the times to become an honest man. 

“If this is about you sleeping with Bull, I’d rather not ruin the moment.” Taren replied, apparently having developed psychic powers. Dorian shrank. 

“So you know about that.” He looked away. 

Taren pulled his face back. “I am the Inquisitor.” He said with a slightly drunken smirk. “I know about everything.” 

Dorian chuckled and made an effort to roll his eyes. “You aren’t… upset?” 

“Of course I am,” Taren said, lightly, though maybe not as lightly as he tried to say it. “But I can manage that on my own.” He placed a hand on Dorian’s chest, “I’d like us to keep doing this.” He said, kissing Dorian again. 

Dorian kissed back, still a little hesitant, tasting the wine. Taren swayed slightly as he pulled away. “You’re drunk again.” Dorian said, doubts creeping into his perfect moment. 

“Mm, well it was a party.” Said the Inquisitor, placing another soft peck on Dorian’s cheek. “You’ve had more than me.” He noted. 

“I can _hold_ more than you.” Dorian reminded him, though he melted at the kiss. 

Taren sighed, and leaned back to better take in Dorian’s face. He was still smiling, and Dorian melted even further under his gaze. 

“Dorian,” Taren began, and now Dorian was a puddle, his name falling from Taren’s lips with heartfelt emphasis, in that pretty lilting accent of his, “you need to stop worrying about me.” He paused, biting his lip. Fuck. “I’ve wanted this - wanted you - long enough.” Taren put it so simply, so direct. And he was looking at Dorian with a smile on his lips and a sparkle in his eye, as though being thus was the easiest thing in the world. Dorian’s cheeks grew hot and his mind somehow felt both blank and overflowing with _want._ Taren kissed him again, deeply, one hand reaching to the back of Dorian’s head, and the other to his thigh. 

“Maker,” Dorian breathed as they finally pulled apart, his own hands moving over Taren’s smooth shoulders, and down to his waist, “I have too.” He whispered, finding his own words matched that directness. Pretty words didn’t usually fail him, but they did now. 

“Good.” Said Taren, and he stroked Dorian’s cheek once, and kissed him again, and Dorian breathed him in and let his mind clear of everything but the sensation of it all. _  
_


	10. Kisses, Pine, and Elven Wine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a sex book.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mature themes continue, this time with explicit language. This chapter is just the sex scene. CW for the drunkenness.

The sex was drunken, even a little fumbling, but Maker, was it good. Dorian leaned into Taren’s kisses, his eyes closed, tongue playing, a delicate dance between them. A short kiss, then a bite, then something longer, deeper, tongues wrestling and hands moving over and through his hair, under a waistband, into that perfect place between hip bone and thigh. He squeezed. 

Taren was forward, aggressive in a way that he would never have expected. He tasted like wine, and laughed when their noses bumped or teeth clashed. He moved quickly, always, grace not failing him even as he struggled to maintain a straight line toward his washbasin. He returned with several small vials of bath oils and a pitcher of water, which he drank from directly, standing naked before Dorian without even a hint of shame. Dorian drank him in. First looking up from the bed, his own shirt already off and pants undone. Then, he reached forward, pulling with both arms around hale thighs, digging fingers into the firmness of Taren’s ass, hard. The Inquisitor jumped, stumbling slightly forward, spilling water and laughing again. Dorian touched him more softly, bringing his lips to his thighs, and over them, and down. 

Dorian took Taren in hand, stroking firmly, as Taren leaned his head back and moaned softly. Then his mouth was on him, excited and finding fun in licking little spirals, tracing outlines, and finally diving in deep. He closed his eyes again, sucking and pulling in a happy drunken trance until Taren’s hands were around his chin again, pulling him up into more kisses. Then they were on his shoulders, pushing him backwards and down onto the bed. 

The bath oils smelled of pine, and soon so did the sheets. Taren returned Dorian’s enthusiasm with his own, kissing lines over his body and straddling him underneath him. He smiled, sideways and seductive, before finding his way to the end of the bed. Dorian had to grab a bedpost to hold onto, his body lifting and tensing with pleasure as Taren touched him, then grabbed him, kissed him again, and settled into rhythmic patterns of kissing, licking, sucking, touching. Dorian had to slow him, every few minutes, pulling him up and on top of him, looking into his perfect face and kissing it, losing his hands over his body, grabbing and pulling him in close until Taren decided it was time to break free and continue having his own joyous way with his cock. He moaned as Taren made him erupt, breath catching as the building erotic tensions were released from his body, his muscles spasming and then relaxing from his toes up to his flushed face. 

A drink of water, a hasty cleanup, and the Inquisitor was his again. Where Taren was strong, Dorian was stronger, and where Taren had been flexible, straddling him and tangling him in his limbs, Dorian was solid and direct. He pushed the Inquisitor back into the bed with a hand on his chest, and pressed his body into him heavily, turning him as he would, taking and touching and helping himself with eagerness to Taren’s ass and to his erection. When Dorian pulled him into kisses Taren wrapped his arms around his neck and gazed with open eyes into his face, and when he pushed him to where he wanted him, rubbing him with oiled hands, tasting him with practiced skill, he moaned and swore in his own tongue. It sounded delicate and fierce, all at once. He made Taren come from on top of him, grinding with his body, stroking him with both hands, kissing him until both were short of breath; needing each other, in that moment, more than air. Tiredness set in with the comfort of climaxing, and Dorian rolled off of Taren to stare up at the ceiling, finding his breath. Taren kissed his chest as he got up to wash. 

There was more water, and more elven wine, after, but few words. Taren made no moves to dress, pulling Dorian into a comfortable spot to place his head on, he leaned on his shoulder and hummed to himself, a smile on his face. Dorian draped his arm over the elf’s shoulders, listening to the soft song and watching as breaths moved his body slightly up and down. Taren set a few soft kisses into Dorian’s neck before his breath began to slow and his eyes fell shut. For a while, Dorian let him sleep on his shoulder, looking him over, smelling the soft hair that brushed up against his face. 

When Taren rolled over in sound sleep, Dorian still sat awake in the bed, looking now to the room, and to the doors to the balcony. He got up, stepping outside for a deep breath of air. 

He wasn’t drunk anymore, but he remained happy, looking out at the stars from the Inquisitor’s towering piece of Skyhold. He could see his own room from there, downstairs in a lower wing of the fortress. No lights were shining in any windows, and he wondered what time it must be. 

Wondering about the time led into thinking about the morning, and about tasks ahead. He pictured the bustling main hall of Skyhold: Dagna coming up from the armory with preparations for the day’s excursion, Josephine giving directives and checking supply lists, Cassandra, Cullen, and Leliana, huddled by the throne, finalizing maps and plans. Taren, entering as he did, to turning heads and whispers. He looked back into the bedroom, the sleeping elf a small and gentle figure, difficult to make out among his scattered bed sheets in the starlit room. A heavy pull in his stomach tethered him to the bed, to Taren’s warm body and smooth skin. But he stepped quietly, pulling the doors closed carefully behind him, and found his clothing in the dark. 

The stairs down from the Inquisitor’s chambers were supported with creaky wooden scaffolding, and Dorian took them as quickly as he could. Then the main hall stood before him, gaping and empty, his every step echoing over the stone. He found his route through quiet halls, arriving at his own room and slipping inside. Through his window, he could just make out the round shape of the Inquisitor’s balcony, and he looked toward it for only a moment too long, the tether in his stomach tensing and tugging once again. He turned and fell into his own bed, which was elegant and soft, draped in heavy quilts and more pillows than he really used. He willed himself to feel happy, as he drifted off, remembering the feeling of Taren’s arms and legs wrapping around him. 

\----

The Inquisitor woke with the sun, a cool draft hitting his exposed shoulders and calves, and light filtering in through haphazard shutters. He rubbed his eyes, a smile still resting on his lips, and lifted himself up into a seat, looking around. There were empty glasses still on the floor by his bedside, next to the half empty pitcher of water and bottle of wine. His smile grew as he remembered the events of the previous night, but fell completely upon realising that he had awoken alone.


	11. The Morning After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A few conversations, recovering from the hangover before the storm.

Varric was cleaning up. He gathered empty glasses to one end of the long table, knocked crumbs and leftover frosting off of empty plates into a nearby receptacle, and stacked them. Under the table, he found Cullen’s trousers, and folded them up. He also found Sera there, and pulled her quickly back into a comfortable chair, filling a glass with water and leaving it beside her. Josephine had told him not to worry, waving her hand with a giggle and promising that there would be people to take care of it all tomorrow. She had left the game earlier than most, after all but falling asleep at the table. Yet, Varric stayed behind until all the others had made their stumbling exits. He was a little drunk himself, and he hummed and swayed as he went about arranging the mess his party had made into something more manageable for the servants. Someone, probably Alistair, had taken a decorative lute off the wall at some point, and Varric dragged a chair over, climbing up onto it and reaching with the lute over his head to place it back on it’s hook. He missed the catch, and almost dropped the instrument, his footing faltering as he did. Before he could fall, a hand caught his shoulder and righted him. 

Hawke took the lute out of his hands and lifted it to the hook. “Careful there, big guy.” She said, chuckling. Varric hopped off the chair.

“Thanks, Champ.” He grumbled, and she laughed. 

Madeline moved back to the table, clearing away a few empty ale bottles and finding one that was still half-full, which she took a swig from. She pulled out two chairs, taking one and offering the other to Varric with a wave of her arm. Varric took the seat, and Hawke passed him the bottle. 

“You’re doing well here,” she said conversationally, nodding toward Sera, who was snoring in her chair at the other end of the long table, “making friends.” 

“Jealous, Hawke?” Varric smirked. 

“Never.” Hawke smiled, “I know I’m irreplaceable.” She leaned back, “I’m glad you’re happy.” She said, her tone a note more serious. 

“Whoa there Mads, are you getting sentimental on me now? How much have you had?” Varric laughed, eyeing the Champion with mock suspicion. 

“You only get the one.” She joked back, then she sighed. “It’s been what? Over two years since I saw you last? I’m allowed to miss you a little.”

Varric let out a breath that was something between a laugh and a sigh. “Yeah. I love you too, Champ.” 

They took a few drinks in silence, weight in the air between them, before Madeline spoke again. 

“So, the Herald of Andraste thing, you believe it?” She asked, raising an eyebrow. 

“Doesn’t matter what I think, he’s been very clear about not wanting to be considered the herald of anything.” 

“So you believe it, then.”

“These days, I never know what to believe.” Sighed Varric. Madeline nodded in understanding. 

“Shit’s really fucked up, this time.” She said, and Varric laughed. 

“Yeah. But if anyone’s going to fix it, Herald or not, it’s him. I’m just trying to be one of the assholes to help with that.”

“As usual.” Commented Hawke. 

“As usual.” Varric agreed. 

“To being the assholes who clean up the messes!” Madeline called brightly, raising the bottle triumphantly.

Varric laughed again. “Hear hear!” He responded with heart. 

“And it doesn’t worry you that the Herald of Andraste is sleeping with the Magister?” Hawke asked with a knowing look.

“Who, Sparkler? He’s sleeping with Bull.”

“Oh my dear sweet Varric, not everyone is as singular with their affections as you.” Madeline tutted in reply, the knowing look still twinkling in her eye. 

“And not everyone is as depraved as you are, Hawke.” Varric shot back with a chuckle. 

“Fine, but those two aren’t sleeping together like I never slept with Ol’ Prince Seb.” Hawke grinned. 

“You did not.”

“Hand to the maker.”

“Does Isabella know about that?” 

“Does she know?” Hawke leaned back, her grin spreading, “it was her idea! She orchestrated the whole thing. The woman could seduce the Arishok, probably. And it was all very pleasant, I’ll have you know, Sebastian even sent us a gift basket.” She continued, gesturing enthusiastically, her maniacal grin spreading even wider. 

“Remind me why I talk to you.” Varric grumbled with a shake of his head. 

“Alright, fine, we never bedded the prince, not outside of some very good role play at least - but I’m still right. There are sparks between your Herald and your Sparkler.” She was still chuckling to herself at the story, and at Varric’s unimpressed face. 

Varric shrugged. "So he has a crush on Dorian. Everyone has a crush on Dorian. Last week I saw him make Solas blush when he complimented his hat. Hell, _I_ have a crush on Dorian!” 

Madeline was laughing now, buckling over in her chair. 

“Dorian’s good people,” Varric continued, “and he’s not a Magister. Apparently, not every mage from Tevinter is." 

“Huh. Who knew?” 

Varric chuckled. “A lot of misfits in this bunch, that’s how I know they’re the ones to count on.” He winked. 

“No one to worry about, then?” Hawke asked. She was speaking lightly, in the same carefree tone she always used, but there was an edge to it, a realness to the word “worry” that one could only hear if they knew her very, very well. Varric caught it. 

“I’m not letting my guard down, but I trust the Inquisitor.” He said, comforting and serious. Madeline just nodded. 

“You have thoughts on it?” Varric prodded. 

“What’s to think? Anyone who has Orlesian, Marcher, _and_ Ferelden nobles in this much of a tizzy must be doing something right.” Madeline replied, “even if he is all work and no play.” 

“You’re just being grouchy because he almost beat you at cards.” Varric laughed. 

“No one but Isabella beats me at cards without cheating.”

“Isabella always cheats”

“Exactly.”

Varric laughed. “So is it back to the high seas for you, after this?” 

Madeline shrugged. “Who knows. This Warden business could go on a while, even after we stop this plan. Alistair thinks it goes all the way back to the top. Could be more messes to clean up in the North…”

“So let the Warden handle it, Hawke.” 

Madeline was quiet. She took another drink. 

"You and Isabella are in another fight, aren't you?" Varric said knowingly. 

Hawke shook her head. "We're not in a fight, we're madly in love. Birds just aren't meant for cages, Varric." 

"Uh huh. Who did what this time?"

"No one did anything, I swear. Sometimes we just... drive each other crazy. But she'll come back, she always does. And so do I." 

They finished the bottle together, and leaned back in their chairs, their talk slowing. Madeline fell asleep first, resting her head on the table. Varric soon followed suit, stretching his legs out onto a second chair. 

“Don't worry Bianca,” he murmured, “I was only joking. You know I only have eyes for you.”

  
  


\----

  
  


“I missed you this morning.” Taren approached Dorian with a somewhat uneasy smile. “I had hoped to get some more time with you before we set out.” A pause, his charm masked the concern, but it was there as it always was. “Is everything alright?” He stood close to Dorian, reaching out and touching his arm as he spoke. 

“Oh you know, just couldn’t sleep in that provincial bed of yours.” Dorian meant it to sound casual, instead it felt insulting and rude. Taren frowned, retracting his arm, and Dorian winced. 

“This doesn’t have to continue, you know. If you’re uncomfortable…”

Dorian, without thinking, placed a hand on the Inquisitor’s shoulder. “It isn’t _you_ that makes me uncomfortable, just those Orlesians in your foyer. I thought it might be better to spare you the gossip. I promise, I’m normally a very gracious houseguest.” He lowered his voice to its signature flirting key, and flashed the Inquisitor a winning smile, one of the ones he could break out on a cue. 

"Alright.” Said Taren, but he did not sound impressed, and his soft green eyes took in Dorian’s mask of a smile without smiling back. 

Taren was headed out with some of the less-hungover members of his party to close one last nearby rift before the trek out to Orlais, from which the group would not be returning until after both the business with the Orlesian court and with the Wardens was finished. Dorian made an excuse, for the first time in weeks, to stay behind. 

\----

Cullen was just about to beat Dorian at chess when Leila approached, a friendly smile on her face. She looked very different now from when she had first arrived in his office, though it had still been only a few short months since she had officially joined the Inquisition. Cullen hadn’t spoken with her since she came to apologize to him in his office, until the party the previous night - and most of those conversations he could only barely remember now, his head still throbbing a little in the sunlight. But, he recalled that he had made her laugh, and now she approached with less stiffness than she usually carried around him. She even offered a wave in his direction, as she approached the table and tossed Dorian the book she was carrying. Dorian caught it, flipping through the pages and delaying his turn at the game. 

“You made comments.” Dorian noted, incredulous.

“It got too much wrong.” The girl retaliated.

Cullen watched as the two mages bantered, and tapped his fingers on the chess board, reminding Dorian that it was his turn. 

“You’re just delaying the inevitable, you know.” He taunted, and Dorian crossed his arms. 

“We’ll see about that.” Dorian returned his attention to the board, and made a hasty move. Cullen smirked. 

Cullen took out one of Dorian’s rooks and eyed Leila as Dorian returned to over analyzing the board. He knew she had been away on missions with the Inquisitor, apparently very eager to help the Inquisition’s cause whenever she could. He found it hard not to feel pangs of regret when he saw her in the tavern or library, ingratiating herself with Dorian and the Chargers, but he had also retained some of his suspicion of her. Leliana found her “interesting”, which to him meant “one to watch”. Still, months had gone by, and while he still did have a few concerns about her trustworthiness, they were waning. 

“Might I play the winner?” She asked, looking over the board.

“Be warned; he cheats.” Dorian grumbled as Cullen put his king in check. 

“You are the one who cheats. You’re just upset that I caught you.” 

“I do not!” Dorian protested. 

“Yes you do.” Leila chimed in. “Badly.” 

Cullen chuckled.“Checkmate.” He said, as Dorian threw his arms up in exasperation. 

Cullen began resetting the board, and Leila took Dorian’s seat after he had stomped off. 

\----

“Do you know the game well?” Cullen asked conversationally. 

“Not as well as you, I’m guessing.” Leila replied, and after a pause added “I learned when I was in Orlais. Everyone cheats there.” 

Cullen smiled - almost laughed - at that. 

The game went slowly, Cullen was taking it easy on Leila, and Leila was thinking long and hard between every move. The game also went quietly, and Cullen searched his mind desperately for something to say.

“So Skyhold is… treating you well, I hope?” He managed to ask, eventually. 

Leila nodded. “It’s a good fortress. Comfortable. Well, besides the dungeons, of course.” 

Cullen frowned. “Right, of course. Sorry that you had to… I mean it is good that -” He fumbled for words. 

“-Relax,” Leila said, laughing, “no hard feelings.”

Cullen swallowed. “None?” 

Leila made her move, and Cullen was surprised to have not seen it coming. 

“No,” said Leila, “the Inquisition... saved my life. Not a lot to hold a grudge about, there.” She smiled, though somewhat sadly. 

Cullen frowned. 

“Besides, I’m not the only one here with a tragic backstory. That’s just the world, these days.” 

Cullen sighed. “It does seem that way, doesn’t it?” 

“Can I ask you something?”

Cullen indicated that she could. 

“You don’t have to say, but it’s something I’ve wondered. When the circle fell all those years ago, how did you… survive?” 

“The Hero of Ferelden, she came just in time and -” 

“No, I mean, I know that. I remember her, sort of - she came through, fought off some demons, and one of the older mages went with her to help. She… she was an elf. I remember that. But you were _inside_ , weren’t you? And no other Templars who were inside came out again - they were all killed, I thought.” 

“Possessed by demons.” Cullen said with a slight shudder, “then killed, yes.” 

“Possessed? I didn’t know Templars could be possessed by demons.”

“It is difficult, it takes a blood mage with a lot of power.” 

Leila frowned, understanding registering on her face. “And you resisted.” 

“Barely. I’d rather not get into it.” 

Leila nodded slowly. “But you’re still you.” she affirmed. 

“I wasn’t, after. Not for a long time.” Cullen said, discomfort in his voice. 

“Blood magic torture. That’s why you were so angry, why you hated mages?”

“What happened in Ferelden was certainly a factor.” He said, tersely. 

“That’s good.” 

Cullen raised an eyebrow. 

“I mean, it’s not good for you, I’m not - I’m not _glad_ you were tortured. But the person you were after, in Kirkwall, you had a reason.”

“Fear? Hardly a good reason.” 

Leila shrugged. “Plenty of Templars are cruel for no reason at all.” 

Cullen frowned even more deeply at that.

Leila decided to change the subject. 

“Did you ever spend time in Orlais? I mean, other than up here in the mountains?” 

“I spent some time in Val Royeaux,” Cullen made a face, “it’s not really my sort of place.” 

Leila laughed. “No, not mine either. I think it’s the food. Does everything you eat have to be so… emotional?” 

Cullen laughed too. “And so much of it is supposed to taste like despair, though I could never place what it really was.” 

“Pickled anise.” Leila said, “despair tastes like pickled anise.” 

Cullen chuckled, “I think you may be right.” 

Leila sighed wistfully.“Well, I certainly never expected to be invited to the Winter Palace. Do you think there will be any normal food?”

“That makes two of us. And I doubt it.” Said Cullen, with a slight smile. 

“Perhaps we should sneak some in.”

“You do that, and you can deal with the lecture from Josephine.” Cullen replied. 

Leila laughed. “I think you’re winning.” She said, looking down at the board now, her brow furrowed as she analysed her possible moves. 

I won when you moved your knight three turns ago,” He said, “but if you move your bishop to block your Queen you might still have a chance.” 

“I think you’re lying to me.” Leila replied, though she took the suggested move anyway. 

Cullen won the game four turns later.


	12. Invitations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is long, but I had so much fun writing it. A silly errand turns into a tour of unsolicited relationship advice from Taren's party.

Two days before the ball, and one before the Inquisition’s caravan was set to embark for Orlais, Josephine’s tailor deposited the custom-made outfits for the party in Skyhold. Taren was surprised, as usually Josephine had the necessary preparations for any event made well in advance, but Josephine waved away the timing with a chuckle. “Fashionably late,” she explained, “the best things from Orlais are.” 

Taren volunteered to distribute the ensembles himself, taking up several of the carefully packaged parcels of fabrics as though they were made of glass. He didn’t have to hand-deliver them, of course, but doing so provided the perfect opportunity to check in with his people, and to relay some of the cautions he’d received from Leliana in person. Josephine let him take on the task without protestation; the elf had studied the art of the Great Game dutifully, and ready or not, there was no use in cramming more information into him now. 

\----

Taren found Sera first. It was late morning when he knocked on her door above the tavern, and she called him in without moving from what she was doing. He found her packing, stuffing a large rucksack with various essentials - knives, arrows, loose cookies and bags of dried fruit, and small glass jars filled with all sorts of dangerous looking substances. Somewhere in there, something was buzzing. 

“I brought you something.” He said, laying the folded items of clothing down in a clear spot on her cluttered bed. 

Sera turned from what she was doing to examine the outfit. 

“Oh thank the Maker,” she said, holding a pair of smooth black trousers against her waist, “trousers, trousers with _pockets_.” 

“You can thank Josephine.” Taren chuckled. 

“Was worried you’d put me in something frilly.” Sera remarked, “though, you don’t really seem much the frills type.” 

Taren tipped his head with a smile of agreement. Sera quickly took up the bundle of delicately folded garments and shoved it into her bag. The bag, overstuffed already, spat out a couple of jars in response, and they made to plummet to the floor. She stuck out a hand, reflexive, and caught the more urgent of the jars - the one that was buzzing - before it could hit the floor and fill her room with angry bees. But before she could sigh with relief, the other crashed and shattered, and a sizzling green ooze spilled out onto the floor. 

“Shite” Said Sera, as she tore the scarf she wore off of her neck and wrapped her hand in it to pick up the pieces of broken glass that lay strewn about Taren’s feet. Taren, too, acted instinctively - he extended a hand and brought the sizzling green stuff swirling up into the air, mixing it magically with conjured sand and dirt until it became a muddy glob that he could wrap in his own scarf, and now neutralized, toss into an overflowing bin. Sera stood, wrapped glass shards still in hand, watching him stern-faced. 

“Didn’t have to magic it all up, I bloody had it.” She muttered as Taren disposed of the waste. She looked at the spot on the floor where the puddle of ooze had been; it was singed, but still solid. “Hell’d you do to it anyway?”

“Dalish trick,” shrugged Taren, “just rubbed some dirt in it.” He smiled. Sera did not. 

“Keep your tricks, next time.” She said. 

“Well, I saved your floor.” Taren replied. 

“Your floor.” Sera corrected, still bitter. Taren sighed, but didn’t fight her. Sera was standing by the door now, looking at him with pursed lips. 

He took the cue, and turned to leave. But before he did, he turned from the doorframe for one last note. 

“Sera, about the party -” he began, and Sera was already rolling her eyes. 

“-I know, I know, ‘be on your best behaviour, don’t piss off any nobles, go easy on the cakes.'” Her hands were on her hips, her lips still pursed unhappily. 

Taren shook his head with an exasperated chuckle. “No, not that. In fact, eat all the cakes you like.” He said. Sera’s annoyed expression faltered. Taren continued, “Leliana has some concerns about how things might go, and I wanted to ask you - if things get complicated. Well. Maybe keep a few of those jars in your pockets, and the bow handy, alright?” 

Sera seemed to think for a moment, her expression changing from annoyance to intrigue. “You expect this thing will actually be _fun_ ?” She asked, finally.

Taren chuckled. “Honestly, no. So you really should just go to town on the cakes.” 

Sera cracked a smile at that. “And pissing off nobles?” She pressed. 

“Supposedly, _I’m_ to do all the talking.” Taren said, “and I think I can manage that part for both of us.” 

That did it. Sera burst out in a loud snort of a laugh, and Taren grinned. “Maybe you’re still alright, Inkybits.” She said.

“Don’t want to get too big for my britches.” Taren replied with a wink. 

“Piss ‘em off good then.” Said Sera through her laughter, “and if some arsehole needs to meet some bees, just say the word. Oh! And by the way of britches, you got yourself into Dorian's yet? Some of us have money on that." 

Taren left then with an exaggerated roll of his eyes, as Sera giggled. 

\----

Nearest to Sera’s room was Cole’s hideout, or at least the place he tended to appear most often. Taren set the clothing marked for him down on a barrel and stood by a moment, looking about searchingly. 

“Hello.” Said Cole, behind him. Taren had been prepared for this, it was how Cole _always_ introduced himself, but he still jumped. He gave his head a shake and turned to face the boy. 

“Cole,” he greeted him with a slight nod, “ready for tomorrow?” 

“Do I have to come?” Asked Cole, surprisingly reluctant. 

“Yes. And if there’s trouble, I might need you to do some disappearing, too.” 

“Alright.” Said Cole, still despondent. 

“I thought you liked parties.” Taren remarked, remembering how happy he had seemed to watch card games and sing tavern songs the other night. 

“I don’t like masks.” Cole answered. 

Taren chuckled. “How about hats?” He asked. 

“Yes.” Said Cole. 

“Well then you’re in luck.” Said Taren, and he passed Cole a tall, stiff brimmed hat with silver edging and a great plumage of striped black and silvery-white feathers. 

Cole took off his usual assassin’s cap and replaced it with the new, stylish, one. He smiled. “Thank you.” he said. 

“I’m glad you like it.” Taren smiled. He knew himself to be not much of a judge, but the thing was frankly ridiculous. 

“You made Dorian very happy the other night.” Cole commented suddenly, and Taren coughed. 

“Cole, do you even know what you are commenting on?” He asked, blushing slightly. 

“ _So that’s why he smells so good. Maker, I could live between his legs._ ” Said Cole, thoughtfully. 

Taren’s cheeks darkened.

“He said he couldn’t picture you dancing, but now it’s all he pictures.” Cole continued, and at that Taren couldn’t help but smile. 

“Perhaps I should ask him to dance then.” He mused. 

“Yes.” Said Cole. “Good idea.”

\----

The Iron Bull was next, and if he was honest with himself, Taren wasn’t completely sure how to approach. He liked Bull, or he thought he did - though, the words “Qunari Spy” still hung in the back of his mind, especially after weeks of spycraft and statesmanship training from Leliana, the ever-suspicious, and Josephine, who imparted in him the understanding that genteel speech and a friendly face could be much, much more than they seemed. Then, there was the whole issue of his brief affair with Dorian. Taren felt the stirrings of something ungentlemanly, maybe even downright immature, at the thought of that. With a deep breath he pushed it aside. He liked Bull, and he and Dorian were far from anything he could put a word to. 

Luckily, Bull was rarely alone, and today was no different. It was too early for drinks at the tavern yet, but he found the massive Quanri and his lieutenant just outside, sparring near the training targets. Bull noticed him before he could announce himself, and stood to attention with Krem quickly following suit. 

“Need something, boss?” Bull was direct, and always stood straight in Taren’s presence - which was respectful, to be sure, but also highlighted his overpowering stature. Taren straightened a little, as well. Taren handed Bull his neatly folded package of clothing, and Bull took it with one raised eyebrow. 

“Think it’ll fit, boss?” Krem commented, addressing Bull with the title, not Taren. “Over that hulking head of yours, I mean.” He ribbed. 

“It buttons up.” Taren offered, and then he felt stupid. 

“Hear that smartass? Buttons.” Bull was poking back at Krem, and Taren found himself with little else to say. 

“Josephine had them all custom made, apparently putting our best faces forward means matching attire.” He said. “But bring the armour too, just in case.” 

Bull nodded. “Always do.” He replied. 

Taren turned to leave, ready to seek out Cassandra, who would undoubtedly also be practicing her swordsmanship nearby. But before he could excuse himself, Bull interrupted with a somewhat hesitant request. 

“Are we bringing the Chargers?” He asked, and quickly he added, “not for the party, but I mean, for this mess with Warden blood mages in the Approach. From what Alistair was saying before, it sounds like we could use all the support we can get.” 

Taren nodded, seeing Bull’s point. The Chargers had indeed proved an invaluable resource in missions of their own, and Culen’s troops - while efficient - were currently spread rather thin, especially since he had recently sent some to aid his own clan, far off in the other direction, fighting in the Free Marches. 

“I’m not sure the pay will be very good, but if they’re up for the fight, I’m glad to have them join it.” He responded, and he saw Krem brighten at the news. 

“In that case,” the lieutenant piped up, “can I come to the party too?” He asked the question jokingly, giving the smooth black fabric of Bull’s party clothes an admiring look, and even laughed at himself as he asked it. 

However, Taren shrugged at the suggestion, his face turning to an easy smile. Why not? He thought. The more eyes he had in that place, the better. So, he answered the lieutenant's jesting request in seriousness. 

“Sure.” Said Taren. Krem blinked. “I don’t see why not.” 

The Iron Bull nudged Krem with his elbow. “You know that means you’re going to be my wingman, right?” 

“Yeah, yeah.” Krem elbowed him back, “I’m sure you’ll be just drowning in attention, what with all your shiny _buttons_.” 

“You’ll have to dress yourself, I’m afraid.” Taren noted, interrupting the banter. 

“No problem,” said Krem, a smile spreading across his face as the realization that the Inquisitor was still serious set in, “been doing that for years.”

“Just raid Dorian’s wardrobe,” suggested Bull with a laugh, “I’m sure you can find some shiny buttons of your very own.” 

Taren smiled at the joke, and left the conversation cordially - making a note to himself to inform Josephine of his impromptu addition to the guest list, and trying not to allow any more undeserved ire to grow as he thought about Dorian and his tight-fitting clothes. 

\----

He found Cassandra not training, but reading, evidently on something of a self-imposed lunch break. She sat on a low bench in the shade of a large tree, her armour, sword, and shield leaning against its trunk. She held a book in one hand and an apple in the other. Taren didn’t think he had ever seen her so relaxed, and almost turned to leave in the interest of allowing her this well-deserved moment of peace. She spotted him though, and quickly shut the book and jumped to her feet. 

“Inquisitor.” She greeted him, formal. 

“I didn’t mean to interrupt.” Taren said apologetically. 

“Not at all.” She replied, setting the book down on the bench she had risen from, face down. “Was there something you needed?” 

Taren rested her parcel of clothing on the bench, next to the book. It’s back cover was pink, and it was made of the cheaper sort of parchment of mass-produced popular literature, not a Chantry tome or political missive. 

“Anything you’d recommend?” He asked, nodding toward the book. 

“Ah, no.” Said Cassandra, blushing. She tucked the book under the folds of clothing Taren had deposited, and quickly changed the subject. “It’s not a dress, is it? Josephine had threatened.” 

“No, more of a uniform, I think." He said reassuringly.

Cassandra nodded, and she stooped to lace up her boots, which in her resting she had evidently removed, and all but jumped back into as Taren had approached. Taren’s own feet were bare, as they often were, and he wanted to encourage her not to bother with such things on his account. She never did listen when he tried, though. 

“Please, continue your reading. You seemed to be enjoying it.” Taren said, raising a hand. Cassandra was still blushing, something he was certain he had never seen the Seeker do before. “What’s the title?” He prodded, perhaps enjoying the warrior’s embarrassment just a small amount, and made ever the more curious by it. 

“It’s nothing, pure rubbish.”

“Oh?” Taren pressed, his curiosity growing. 

Cassandra sighed. “One of Varric’s romance novels, if you must know. _Swords and Shields_. It’s all improbable misunderstandings and...sex.” Her cheeks were now redder than the apple in her hand.

“Fantastic.” Said Taren enthusiastically. 

Cassandra balked. “ _You_ like smutty literature?” 

Taren laughed. The library in Skyhold held many books - factual accounts of every age, battle tales and large tomes of lore and legend, compendiums of research on magical artifacts, wild beasts, and religious dissertation. But it had very little in the way of good stories, and he missed the tall tales of the clan storytellers and the lewd booklets of poorly written erotic prose he had sometimes traded sailors for in his youth. Varric spun tales sometimes, gathering around campfires when he accompanied Taren’s party for their bouts of camping in the country, and they were wonderful. Not to mention that dramatic account of Kirkwall’s rebellion and Madeline Hawke’s rise to fame which Taren had worn to death. The pages of that book which detailed the mage’s dramatic affair with the salacious pirate captain were so exaggeratedly described that he couldn’t help but turn the same shade of red that Cassandra was now, when he had first met the legendary Champion. (Though upon getting to speak with her, it became clear that Madeline reveled in her scandalous reputation, and he was now fairly certain that much of the content of those chapters was of her own devising.) While Taren certainly felt that he could be bold, what was bold to the Dalish clearly paled in comparison to what was bold to pirate captains and unruly apostates. 

“I might.” He said teasingly, “would that be so scandalous?” 

Cassandra stuttered. “I...suppose not.” She admitted, still blushing. 

Taren felt a twinge of guilt at Cassandra’s discomfort, but creators help him, making the Seeker blush was _fun._ Dorian was rubbing off on him. “Is it a series?” He asked, “Can I borrow one?” 

Cassandra eyed him with suspicion. “Not if your aim is to make fun.” She warned. 

Taren took a seat on the bench, pushing the bundle of clothes which still hid the book to one end, and offering Cassandra a seat. “I assure you it isn't.” He said, honestly. “Perhaps I could learn something from it.”

Cassandra took the offered seat, pulling the book out again from where she had covered it, and passing it to the Inquisitor without looking. “Learn something? About what?” 

“Oh you know,” sighed Taren, “wooing.” 

Cassandra chuckled at his nonchalance. “So it’s true what people are saying, then? You and Dorian?” She commented.

Taren shrugged, opening the book to flip through its pages. A soldier and a guard captain - it looked fun. “That depends on what it is people are saying, I suppose.” He said, “I certainly hope there can be a ‘me and Dorian’, at least.” 

Cassandra made a thoughtful sound. “I think the _Swords and Shields_ books may be too low-brow for the likes of him.” She warned. “Well, take it. That is the first. If you enjoy it, there is a second. You can borrow it too when I’ve finished it, if you would like.” 

Taren smiled. Cassandra finished her apple, and tossed the core under the tree. “I should get back to work,” she started, “we have a busy few days ahead of us.” Her tone was back to it’s usual formality. Taren nodded. 

“I’ll leave you to it.” He said, standing to leave. 

“Inquisitor,” Cassandra called after him, standing herself. Taren turned. “Perhaps you should also consider not getting too caught up in that man’s charms.” She said. 

Taren made no response to the suggestion, but as he walked away he felt its sting. 

\----

Blackwall was working on his carpentry by the stables nearby, and Taren sauntered over to give him the new outfit. Blackwall stopped what he was doing to give Taren his upright attention as well. Another of his dedicated soldiers, standing tall. 

“Don’t they usually all wear masks at these things?” Blackwall asked, looking through the pieces of expensive black and silver attire. “Will we have to do that too?” 

“It’s not a requirement, but if you want one…”

“No, no,” Blackwall waved the suggestion off. “Just don’t want to look too ridiculous, that’s all. These are the latest fashions, then? Montillyet stamp of approval and all?”

Taren ruffled his hair. “That's what I’m told.” He said. “Though when it comes to looking ridiculous, I’m not sure I’m one to talk.” 

“Oh, don’t let Vivienne’s jabs get to you, Your Grace. You dress just fine.” Blackwall said, noting the Inquisitor’s self deprecation. 

Taren laughed lightly. “Not sure that you’re one to talk, either.” He joked, and Blackwall chuckled. 

“Fair enough.” Said the Warden. “Well, we’ll both just have to get all cleaned up and show Orlais our finest form, won’t we?” 

Taren smiled. “I have to admit, I think that’s the part I’m most nervous about.” 

Blackwall laughed. “Demons, he can handle, but an expensive suit?” He shook his head. “Actually, I see your point.” 

“Be ready for action.” Taren cautioned as he readied to leave the Warden to his crafts. 

“Always.” Said Blackwall. “Thank the lady for me, would you? For the outfit.” He said as Taren was leaving. 

“Get all cleaned up and thank her yourself.” Replied Taren with a smirk. 

\----

  
  


Taren had to head inside to gather up the rest of his deliveries. As he did, he informed Josephine of the new addition he had made to the party. She shook her head with exasperation at the news, but laughed. 

“You really don’t understand how any of this works, do you?” She said, still chuckling. 

“No, not at all.” Said Taren with a rambunctious smile. “Besides, aren’t the best things fashionably late?” 

“I’ll make the arrangements.” Sighed Josephine. “Maker save us.” 

\----

Taren found Leila after some searching, once again seated alone on the rocky platform overlooking the waterfall in Skyhold’s dungeon. She was practicing at different magics; summoning barriers, reciting the vocalizations of healing spells with quick movements of her hands, and sometimes flickering in and out of sight. Taren cleared his throat as he approached, and threw up a spell of his own - a low orb of light that brightened the dim enclave. 

Leila flickered in and out of visibility once more before greeting him. 

“I left the clothes Josephine had tailored for you in your room.” Taren said, “but I wanted to be sure everyone is prepared for our presentation at the Winter Palace myself.” 

“Not sure about being presented to anyone, but I’ll be prepared for Orlais.” Leila replied. She had on an anxious expression. 

“You look worried.” Taren noted, “something on your mind?”

“Just Halamshiral.” Leila admitted. “I never thought I would be somewhere like that. Never thought I’d even be back in Orlais, out against the assassins and bards…”

“And that worries you?”

“Worry?” A quick smirk, “no, not with the Inquisition.” She paused. “Though, you do know what goes on at these things, don’t you? In the past seven years there have been four poisonings, three stabbings, and one defenestration at that Court’s fancy balls.”

“Yes, Leliana informed me of all the gory details.” Taren assured her. “We’ll be coming prepared.”

Leila nodded, his meaning understood. There was a brief pause before she turned the subject around to the Inquisitor's affairs. Like Sera, she had little regard for tact, often playing at overconfidence.

“Listen, this may be none of my business, but…” She began.

“Yes?” Indulged the Inquisitor.

“You and Dorian, did you ever sort all that out?” Leila finished, some of that same smugness in the question. 

“Sort all what out?” Taren asked, though his expression gave him away. It was like this now with many of his companions, especially those who most often volunteered to join him on his frequent excursions into the field. There was work to be done for everyone, whether in Skyhold or out sealing rifts, but Taren left the fortress to fight himself, as often as he could. And while his title still held weight, in the field boundaries were fewer. Staying in camps and newly conquered keeps was inherently more intimate than in Skyhold, and Taren preferred it that way. He set much of the tone himself, never too polite to ask a blunt question, and he felt at home in sharing, though this particular topic was now sending him blushing. 

Leila smirked. “Oh you know, how you’re always propositioning him whenever you’ve had a couple in you, and him agonizing over the respectability of it all... Forgive me, but, maybe the two of you ought to have that conversation sober, one of these days.”

Taren crossed his arms, feeling suddenly defensive. “You have advice?” He asked, not meaning for it to sound as incredulous as it did. Leila and Dorian were friends, he knew, and while Taren always seemed to be set at a distance from the rest of his party, all three of them had had lively discussions from time to time. Still, she was generally dismissive of personal subjects and eager to fight, as well as being something of a lush herself.

“Fine, so I’m as much a resident of the tavern as Sera or Bull.” Leila admitted. “But you’re not. In fact you rarely have any fun.” 

“Why does everyone keep accusing me of that?” Taren sighed. 

“Because it’s true. You’re always running errands you don’t have to, healing even though we have healers, leaving your fortress for the field.” 

“Well, only I can close the rifts, and that’s important.” Taren responded. 

“I know it is. That’s why we’re all here.” Leila hesitated. 

“But?” 

“But… aren’t you allowed to be happy?”

“Aren’t you?” Taren asked, and he gestured at the dungeon where they stood. Leila may have made friends, and she put forward a loud and confident attitude, but she still kept her distance, and busied herself with work as much as he did. He appreciated her dedication, but he knew her distance was purposeful, born out of a wounded past. After all, much of that past had been put on display for him when she joined the cause. Taren was sympathetic, and steadfast in his forgiveness, pardoning her whole cloth. She had stayed with the Inqusition by choice, not conscription. Still, he knew that not everyone who had heard the second or third-hand accounts of her coming to the Inquisition was as understanding. He had faith, however, seeing something hopeful in her, and she strived unceasingly to prove herself in the field. 

Leila was silent for a moment. Then she shrugged. “I’m the happiest I’ve ever been.” She said, characteristically confident. Taren was still looking through her, and she sighed. “There are things that... haunt me, Inquisitor.” She shook her head, “I expect that they always will. But at least I’m a person here. And so are you. I mean, what’s the point, otherwise?" She asked, regaining a smile. 

“I’ll take that under advisement.” Said Taren, meaning it. 

“Good.” Said Leila. 

\----

Varric was in the main hall, polishing Bianca at a table while Madeline Hawke sat beside him, talking animatedly. She waved him over with a smile. 

“The Herald!” She cried enthusiastically. 

“Hawke…” Varric cautioned as Taren made a face. 

“Listen, settle something for me -” Madeline continued, ignoring him. 

“- Here we go.” Sighed Varric. 

“You are sleeping with the tall dark and handsome mage, aren’t you?” 

Varric cut in again. “Don’t mind her, she’s just trying to live vicariously through someone because she misses Isabella.” He said, shaking his head.

Taren decided to play coy, as best he could. After all, the day had made it clear that people would talk anyway, he might as well try to take a page out of the Champion’s book. “I haven’t made a habit of it…” He smiled. 

“Ha!” Exclaimed Hawke, satisfied. “I told you so.” She said to Varric with a laugh. Varric sighed. 

“Well, listen - word of advice,” started Hawke, returning her attention to the Inquisitor. 

“This should be good…” Muttered Varric, still shaking his head, his expression amused. 

“If I know anything about relationships-” Continued Hawke. 

“- She doesn’t.” Varric added. 

“- You should follow your heart and worry about the rest later.” Hawke finished cheerily.

“By heart, she means loins.” Varric countered. 

“What’s the difference?” Asked Madeline Hawke with a grin. 

“See?” Said Varric. 

“Because you’re so much better at it?” Hawke countered, still playful. 

“Now now, Bianca and I have a perfectly healthy relationship.” Varric responded. 

Taren chuckled. “Just as long as you bring her as your date to the ball.” He said. 

“She wouldn’t miss it.” Varric agreed. 

\----

  
  


Feeling confident, Taren approached Vivienne next. It appeared to Taren that Vivienne wished to intimidate everyone she met. This was not a new concept to him, and in response he could carry himself with the confidence of a Keeper, so that for the most part they spoke to one another with respect. Still, he often felt as though he had walked into a trap in speaking with her, and that somehow he would come out of it agreeing with her points. He wasn’t sure quite what she thought of him, and on a good day, he didn’t care. Other times, however, he wondered at how it could be that he could be such an outsider and still be expected to garner respect, to be held in charge. At these times, Vivienne _was_ intimidating. 

"I understand you had some input on the designs for these." He said, bringing her the package which Josephine had indicated was hers. It had more pieces than the others, and was heavier. 

“Indeed.” Said Vivienne with a satisfied nod. “I trust they're to your liking.”

“You actually care about my opinion? On clothing?” Taren asked, affably. 

Vivienne smiled. “On the aesthetics of them, no. But for your comfort, certainly.” She said. 

“I haven't tried it on yet,” Taren admitted, “but they look...nice. The fabric is very soft.” He scrambled for the compliment. Why were they still talking about clothes? 

“The fabric is Royale Sea Silk,” Vivienne corrected him, “painstakingly sourced from the most elite textile sellers in Orlais, and very expensive. If it was not very soft, I would have the tailor who procured it beheaded.” She said sharply.

“I uh, suppose I should try mine on.” Said Taren, having never before considered the eliteness of textile sellers. 

“Yes, you should. It is always wise to ensure the fit of one's outfit well before the event for which it is intended, Inquisitor.” Vivienne advised sagely. 

“Right. I'll remember that.” Said Taren, sounding mostly dismissive. 

“Appearances are important, especially in Orlais.” Said Vivienne with a stern raise of her eyebrow. 

Taren waved it off. It didn’t matter what he wore. “I'll always be an elf, won't I?” 

“Perhaps,” Said Vivienne, unyielding, “but with the right words, the right clothes, the right company... you could be a very influential one.”

And there was the trap. “The right company?” 

“Do not pretend that your affairs go unnoticed, Inquisitor. They never will.” She remarked, even toned. 

“And what does it matter what my personal affairs are?” He asked, ruffling. 

“They are as much a part of your appearance as what you wear, darling.”

“And what appearance should I be keeping up, exactly? I’ll always be Dalish in Orlais, and a heretic to the Chantry. I won’t change what I am to appease some court.” Taren retaliated. An outsider, a mage without understanding of the Circle hierarchy, an official power untethered from the chantry, a rebel supporter; a Mad Elf. That was what he was to the world, and he knew it. Well, it was what he was. 

Vivienne bristled. “I did not say that you should, only that for the sake of the Inquisition, you should be mindful of how you appear. In the Game, one's personal affairs can be spun in all sorts of creative ways.”

“Or perhaps Orlais could learn to mind less.” Taren responded, he would have rather kept talking about the clothing. 

“Do not be so quick to scoff at the powers of the world. I understand your frustration, but these sorts of ordeals require tact, as much as gall.”

Taren crossed his arms.“You think you understand my situation?” He asked her pointedly. 

“Better than you think, I am still a mage, dear. I was not born to status, and I am no stranger to the hard work of gaining respect. Your reputation affects a great many others, you know.” Vivienne bit back. 

“You don’t have to tell me what my responsibilities are.” Said Taren, seriously. “And if I’m to be so important, then perhaps as we’re busy saving the world, some might change their minds.”

“Capturing the heart of a people, are we? A noble goal, certainly, but a difficult one. Best of luck, darling.”

Taren left her balcony feeling unbalanced, his mind grinding through one responsibility to another. He had been taking on the problems of the world dutifully, one fight after another. He was studious, careful, he listened to his advisors and he cared for his people. He forgave so much more than was deserved, and he did it honestly. But he did not, would not, conceal his heart. And his heart was with _freedom_ , with his people and with the mages and, while we were at it, with love. Yet he was not bold. He was not quick witted and sharp tongued and political. His was a world of history and knowledge, keeping of tradition, managing of resources. Keepers lead, they don't play games. And he was focused on sealing the breach, stopping Corypheus, not on power struggles in a world that wasn't his. But now it had been asked of him, and he had taken to that responsibility with the same dedication he had given every other fight. Still, in every other fight he had at least been permitted to be himself.

\----

Taren went to Solas next. The mage was an enigma of a sort, but generally a pleasant one. Taren appreciated his insights on lore and ancient myth, though it pained him how wholly _unrelatable_ the apostate could be; arrogant in how he spoke of the people, yet so like them himself. Taren had his own criticisms for the Dalish, but straying into such talk with Solas conversation would become terse, at best. Still, Solas cared, and he helped readily when asked. He was also a uniquely skilled mage, so when they talked Taren often tried to let it be simply about magic, where Solas could describe fascinating magical techniques and theory.

“Ever been to a ball, Solas?” Taren asked lightly, finding Solas at his usual desk. 

“In dreams, Inquisitor.” Said Solas with a smile, “it shall be quite interesting to participate, I’m sure. A new experience for you as well, I take it?” 

Taren shrugged. “I’m getting used to being in unfamiliar territory.” He said. 

“You have been preparing for this event most diligently.” Solas noted. “Do you feel prepared?”

“For defenestrations, maybe. Less so for the diplomacy.” Said Taren honestly. 

“Ah the machinations of the court; the Grand Game. You make history just by playing.” Solas said with a nod.

“I’d rather not play altogether.” Said Taren. 

“Yet you have the chance to make quite the impression for you people, how will you use it, I wonder?”

Taren sighed. “My people?” He repeated, switching the language of their conversation as he did to their native Elvhen; for that’s what it was - Solas’ accent was a little strange to him, but his speech was as native as Taren's. “I represent the Inquisition, the People should be able to speak for themselves. I don’t exactly relish being held up as an example of all of us...”

“Then you are more honourable than most.” Solas replied, his speech smooth.

Taren sighed, the conversation felt like another trap. “I’m not trying to be some champion for the People. I just want to stop Corypheus, seal the breach, and then -” He stopped.

Solas smirked. “And then?” 

Taren let out a short breath of a laugh, hesitating. “That’s all a little too far in the future to think about, honestly.” He said. 

“So you are not thinking about the future then,” Solas replied, still smirking, “when you cast long gazes toward a certain mage?”

Taren could not help but laugh, though it was another short sigh of a laugh. He shook his head. “You too?” 

“Cole is very observant.” Said Solas. 

“And I suppose you have an opinion to offer?” Taren asked, a part of him genuinely curious. 

Solas shrugged. “It is frankly beyond me how a Dalish elf and a Magister-to-be from Tevinter - a man whose family doubtless owns slaves, born from a culture that has oppressed your people for centuries - could find enough common ground to even hold a conversation, nevermind whatever it was that Cole was talking about, but…” Solas chuckled to himself, taking a breath. Taren was smirking slightly, now. “You are both surprising examples of your people. Perhaps it only shows that even the worst things may change…” Solas finished, musing.

Taren chuckled, and Solas looked satisfied. “I’m not sure whether you’re insulting me more or him, but I think I agree with you.” Taren said with a weary laugh. Leave it to Solas to say something that was somehow both wise and ignorant, all at once. 

“Still, I would not be so quick to forget what he is, Inquisitor.” Solas finished. And Taren hated that it ate at him. 

  
  


\----

Taren had dutifully doled out the requisite party clothing to every member of his escort save one. He had seen Dorian again in the library, in the two evenings since the party, but only in passing. They had flirted, even kissed in the quieter moments, but not talked. The words were digging at Taren now, though he didn’t have any idea of what he wanted to say. 

If their affair was a secret, it was already becoming an open one. The comments of the day mounted up, along with the weight of the title, of duty, respectability. What did the world want of him? What did he care? And Dorian? What did _he_ want of him?

He knew what he wanted: just a chance. There was faith there, and friendship, and a tugging at his heart that was worth pursuing, worth enjoying - wasn’t there? 

That was the weight that was heaviest on his mind - was there a chance?

  
Gods, how much did he care. 

  
  


\----

  
  


“I have a present for you.” Taren said, when Dorian answered the knock at his chambers. 

Dorian invited him in, taking the parcel of clothing delicately and gently placing it on a chaise, inside. 

“Your bed,” Taren remarked in surprise, following him inside, “you weren’t joking.” Dorian lamented often the lack of cushioning in the field, playing up his discomfort to dramatic effect, yearning melodramatically for his lush bed. Now that Taren saw it, he couldn’t help but chuckle. No one could possibly need so many pillows. 

Dorian tossed him a wink and a smile. “I could give you a tour.” He offered. 

Taren was still carrying a carefully folded package of garments. Dorian nodded toward it. “Unless you have somewhere else to be.”

“Actually,” began Taren, “I wanted your opinion.” He said, blushing slightly. 

Dorian took a moment to register his meaning, and then broke into a grin. 

\----

Taren tried on the outfit Josephine’s tailor had made him; silky smooth layers of black, a flashy overcoat with silver buttons, fitted sleeves, and detailing in fine stitches. He emerged tightly fitted and sparkling, to Dorian’s obvious delight. 

“Now twirl.” Dorian commanded, an amused smile on his face. Taren did not return the expression. “What? You look dashing.” 

“It feels like a costume.”

“It _is_ a costume. A beautiful, shiny costume. Enjoy it!” Dorian brushed a hand over Taren’s chest, his fingers tracing the line of buttons that shone out from the black overcoat. “You look very good in black.” He said in a low growl. Taren felt hot. 

“Black and silver. Much more you.” He replied, straightening the jacket and fiddling with its sleeves. 

“Mm, we’d be a very striking pair. The Inquisition shall be the envy of the ball, I’m certain.”

“Will you be my dancing partner, then?” Taren asked suddenly, sounding hopeful. 

Dorian sighed.“You know Josephine would have a fit. She would probably make us both fill out some sort of paperwork…” he attempted to brush off the Inquisitor’s invitation with a joke, but Taren was still looking at him without humour. 

“So what?” Said Taren, surprised at the hint of anger that appeared in the question.

Dorian kissed him, lingering. Small gestures; kisses in the evenings, a lingering holding of hands, touching an arm when they talked. These things had become a part of their interactions. There hadn’t been much time for talking or for anything else since the party, but that hadn’t been the only barrier. Now Taren sensed it, and he was uneasy. 

“Trust me, Inquisitor, you don’t want the sort of trouble that would come with me.” Dorian said, still defending himself with charm. 

“You’re trouble, are you? Should I be impressed?” Taren did not sound charmed. He felt a current of hot jealousy rising that was unlike him. _Should I be turned on?_ He felt like asking, though it felt too bitter to say. Still, he was. Looking at Dorian’s slightly clenched jaw, hearing the low growl of his voice - 

“For you, I very well could be.” Said Dorian, still defensive, still attempting to lighten the blows with flirtation. “I’m only trying to be on my best behaviour, don’t tempt me.” 

Taren’s anger spiked, then, in a shape he hadn’t expected. “Was sleeping with Bull part of this ‘best behaviour’?” He snapped. 

“That’s not - you said - I thought you weren’t jealous.” Dorian stuttered, his face red now. 

“Well, I suppose I am, then.” Taren responded, surly. Was he? 

Dorian shook his head. “You needn’t be.” He said, though his tone matched Taren’s. “You are one of the most incredible people I have ever had the pleasure of knowing.” He said, with less anger, and more charm. 

Taren crossed his arms. “Am I?” 

“Don’t fish for compliments, Inquisitor. It isn’t becoming. You know how impressive you are.” Dorian scolded, but this was more honest. “I'm sorry.” He said quickly, “I’m being unseemly.” He paused, Taren was looking at him expectantly, and unimpressed. “You _are_ amazing though, surely you know it. And you have enough concerns already, there’s no need to add me to your sea of troubles.” He said apologetically. 

“I can handle a few whispers, Dorian. Can you?” Taren was still disappointed, and Dorian was frowning, looking uncomfortable. Maybe it was a ridiculous thing to ask, after all. He knew it was true that the gossip would be a nightmare, that Josephine would kill him. Perhaps the whole thing really would end in flames, anyway. The Tevinter mage and the Mad Elf; maybe the chance wasn't there at all.

“I am only trying to be responsible.” Dorian said, finally. “That is your manner of business, isn’t it? I’m sorry, but it’s a bit of a new concept for me.” More humour, a perfect smile, charm. 

“It certainly is.” Taren felt bitter, and it was still bleeding into his voice.

Dorian's smile faltered. He plastered it back on, he was certainly good at that. “You see, I am simply not worthy.” He said with exaggeration. He leaned in and kissed Taren. A suave, soft peck. Probably another one of his practiced moves, Taren thought, but it worked.  
  
“Don’t turn this around.” He warned, though much of the anger was gone from his voice.

Dorian sighed. “Just secure your peace with Orlais, and don’t let me get in your way. I’d never forgive myself if my presence here hurt our cause.” He said, more seriously. He kissed Taren again. It felt honest, even if it was only to placate him. Taren kissed him back, though he felt reluctant.

“Fine.” Said Taren.

So this was what was wanted of him. Indefinite, inconsequential, quiet; all mild flirtation and clandestine evenings. Was it so unreasonable to want more? Yet Dorian appealed to him honestly, to his responsibility, and he could not force Dorian to abandon concerns that should also be his. He sighed, there was more work to be done, and he excused himself to get to it.

He would have to find more words, eventually. For now, he would set to work.


	13. Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flashbacks within flashbacks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: alcohol abuse, blood/gore, allusions to trauma. Nothing terribly graphic, but definitely kind of dark.

The First Night 

The Seeker left in a huff. How much time had that one spent yelling? Two hours? More? Enough time that her knees ached, and the damp had sunk through everything. The Seeker’s footsteps echoed up the steps, slapping the damp stone with the clang of armoured boots. The Nightingale skipped up behind her, and there was muttering between them before a door slammed shut at the top. The fancy one left next, her eyes lingering too long, unreadable. She looked worried, and cold. She sighed, going up the stairs with the quick gentle patter of feet that are eager to be somewhere else. The Templar was last, his glare unfaltering. He looked as though he wanted to ask another question, or perhaps just shout something. He did neither, but checked her chains before stomping away. There was a guard posted up there, out of the damp, but the other cells were empty. Alone. Now she was alone down here. Leila let out a long breath of air. 

Maybe she should have answered. Given a name, made a plea. She remembered the Templar’s eyes, narrow and unforgiving; thought of the Seeker’s shouted words, how they echoed off the stone, desperate with frustration. _There are ways,_ said the Nightingale. No. Better to wait. Take it to the top, at least then you know it got that far.

Besides, they were calling him the Mad Elf in letters; knife-eared wild mage, classless, uncivilised, trouble. Good. Chantry criers called him a heretic, and so did _he_. Even better. Heretic to everyone; a new force to be reckoned with. He had Templars who weren't Templars in his barracks, free mages roaming his fortress, and flags all over refugee camps. _Inquisition._

Out in the villages and camps, the stories were different. They were calling him Herald of Andraste. Stories of farms liberated from rampaging wolves, blankets given to the cold, and healers brought to the sick floated about wherever he went. Scouts gossiped that he’d talked to them, that they had seen how his hand _glowed._ Refugees would swear they saw him close those nightmarish tears in the world, that he could make even demons bleed. News had come of the freed mages, forgiven prisoners, redeemed criminals…

The Mad Elf is merciful, that was what the poor and the wretched said. Only the powerful called him trouble. Good. 

She leaned against the cold stone until the sound of the waterfall got quiet.

\----

The sound of the water fades into the mists. 

She is looking up at the pretty older girls, and their dark blue night dresses look soft and clean. 

She holds up five fingers. Such a small number, they coo at her. Five is such a small number! 

“...Too young, she’ll never make it.” The Templar is speaking out of the shadow, vicious humour in his voice. 

“Just hope Irving ends it before the demons do.” Says the other one. 

They laugh and the shadows of their mouths are like snapping wolves, teeth pointed and tearing at the light. She’s shivering. A tall mage turns her around, wraps her in blankets. 

So many stairs. Stepping ever downward in the pitch black. Down, down, down, until the wind and spray hit, wet and cold. The lake moves angrily, black ink roaring against the howl of the winds. She’s shivering when the hand reaches for her, pulls at her shoulder. She looks up, and the woman is looking out at her from under a soaked cloak, dark hair plastered across her forehead. Julie, she knows. Julie smiles at her, it helps. 

“Come on, and don’t let go of each other.” 

She realises she’s been holding hands with another girl, with Nessa, and Nessa is holding someone too, and the line goes on, cold faces in blue nightdresses. She gets on the boat. Julie sits across from her smiling. Spray soaks through her cloak, and she’s still shivering. Nessa is shivering too. She looks at Julie, looking for the smile. 

Julie smiles, “don’t let go of each other.” The sound is lost to the thrashing of wind and water against the hull of the boat, but she knows. 

Lightning flashes over Julie’s face, illuminates her for what feels like an hour. The smile isn’t a smile, but a stern straight line. Her eyes are dim and grey, they used to be brown. Sun of the Chantry on her forehead. Rain and spray and wind slap her face, soak through to her bones, she’s shivering. 

A clang at the bars, followed by the clatter of metal hitting the floor.

\----

Leila opened her eyes. Silver boots stood behind the dull metal tray. There was bread on it, and a shallow dish of soup, it smelled good. She looked up slowly. The Templar. She shoved the tray back toward the boots and looked away, turning her head to the darkest corner of the small cell. There were rough towels folded there, old and tattered and dry. The Templar paced outside the cell for a minute, then stopped. She could feel his eyes on her, but she squinted at the towels, counting the folds. Eventually his footsteps stomped back up the stairs. A slim triangle of light flickered down to her, and the door was shut again. She scrambled quickly to the towels. There were two, dark blue and clean, though the fabric was scratchy. She wrapped one around her, while the other she kept folded and pushed beneath herself like a cushion. She brought her knees in close, pulling herself tight. The shivering stopped. 

Free

She had been counting the days. Three in the dungeons, now sixteen in this room. Three since she killed him. 

Knife across his throat, blood dripping over her hand. A fantasy made real… and all of it over, just like that. Her whole body still ached, and her head throbbed; heat in the back of her skull, poking at that angry spot at the back of her neck. She came back on the Seeker’s leash, cracked wise about something just to see her snarl, and was deposited in the room. Meals came, and the bread was fresher, the soup thicker. Sometimes there were raw vegetables or slices of fruit. 

Three days since she killed him. The fancy one hadn’t been back. Josephine, the ambassador. She had started coming almost daily, asking questions - not about _her,_ about the room. Was it too cold? They would fix the leak. Here, some clothes, will these fit? Perhaps she would like some curtains? The window does face east. Leila didn’t answer, but Josephine fixed up her surroundings anyway. She should have thanked her.

The room was clean and warm and dry and big, so big that she could kick and stretch and lunge across it without hitting the bed or the dusty mirror in the corner, which she had turned to face the wall. The first week, that was all she did: stretch and move and sometimes sleep, tossing on the bed and moving to the floor when it was just _too soft,_ but never for too long. Then books started to come along with the food. 

Besides the fancy one - Josephine - the Nightingale came too, always with questions, and sometimes bringing the Inquisitor. They hadn’t come either since the Seeker had put her back, just food trays from the guards. They were deciding what to do with her. She took up a book. It was full of recipes, so she just stared at them, trying to picture what each ingredient tasted like. 

\----

She was in an uneasy space between waking and sleep when the knock rapped at the door. The book was lying open, face down on her chest, and she was sitting in the bed, almost comfortable. Flashes of red and echoes of screams faded as she opened her eyes, out of the mists of half-dreams and into the soft breeze of mountain air through the east-facing window. The curtains fluttered and sunlight danced on blue bed sheets. 

The knock came again, an authoritative sound. 

Leila jumped up and flattened out her sheets, covering the book. 

“Yes?” She called out. She never knew what to say, when he knocked. Come in? Were prisoners allowed to say that? But he always knocked. 

The Inquisitor opened the door slowly, cautious because he was being courteous, not defensive. She stood straight, but he still walked in like a king, making her feel like she was slouching. 

The next part happened like another dream, but a perfect one. Birds were chirping on the windowsill as the Inquisitor smiled at her and offered her a blank page on which to write out her own redemption. She managed to act like it was achievable; he radiated hope from that smile and despite herself, she believed him. He told her she could help, and for a second her head stopped aching and she remembered how to actually smile. She thought of the small boy in her arms instead of Amandeus’ choking gasps and felt _good_ , and she agreed. 

Then he told her the only thing she didn’t expect to hear: that all the chains were off. He offered her a tour and still stunned, she quickly refused it. She thought he would insist; that he would parade her about, let everyone see that she was loose, but he didn't. He left like it was nothing and when he did he left the door open, and the guard was gone. She waited, watching the open door over the top of the cookbook from a seat on the floor, leaning against the bed. 

When the birds ceased chirping and the room grew dark she shrouded herself in magic, putting up a curtain of fade to reflect the world around her, and stepped out. The hallway was empty. She dropped the magic - save the energy - and walked slowly toward the door at the end of the hall. She found her way to stairs, and finally up onto the battlements, looking out. The stables were below, and some distance from there she could see the glow of light from a building sticking out from the walls, and the bustle of people moving in and out of it. She remembered a map, the Templar’s office was right around the corner. 

There was light in the windows, but no guards were posted nearby. She threw up the cloaking spell anyway, walking softly past the door. It was open, just a crack, and she could hear talking from inside. 

“-Received another report from the troops we sent to Ferelden with the new refugees,” It was the Nightingale. Leila leaned in, straining to listen. 

“Good news, I hope?” The Templar asked. It was a new sound, to hear him hopeful. 

“Complaining they need more blankets, but Josephine is on it.” 

Leila heard the Templar chuckle, she didn’t think he knew how. “Not if the Inquisitor gets to it first, I’d wager.” He said. 

The Nightengale laughed with him, then started to talk about something else, asking after his family - a sister - she stopped mid sentence. Leila tensed. 

“What is it?” Steps toward the door, Leila dashed back around the corner, pressed up against the outside wall of the office. The Nightengale looked out, long in her direction, then went back inside.

“Nothing.” The door shut this time, with a click. 

\----

Leila ran across the battlements, arriving inside above the tavern. Upstairs in the corner by the door it was dark and empty, so she looked out at the rollicking people below, uncloaked, catching her breath. 

There were figures she recognised from the fight, and from stolen notes and letters before that. The Qunari was there with his company, and the elven archer, the dwarf, and the Grey Warden were there as well. They were all seated at one table, popular and loud. The Qunari laughed often, his voice booming among the crowd. She was considering what bottle to steal away from the bar when someone tapped her on the shoulder, and she jumped. 

“Hello.” Said the boy. He looked familiar in a vague sort of way. From the cell, from the caves. Or maybe not. 

She didn’t respond. 

“You can join them, if you’d like. Well, you did. _Inquisition._ ” He smiled, or seemed to smile with his eyes, and bowed slightly. “You liked the laughter though, you could join for that too. It helps more.” 

She stuttered an answer but the boy was gone, and there was a bottle of ale in her hand. 

\----

Main hall, downstairs, ambassador's office, the fancy one; Josephine. She wasn’t sure what she would say, or even if she would say anything, but she went anyway. Maybe she could leave a note. More voices now, so invisibility again. She was getting tired, but the halls were all so brightly lit. 

Josephine was at her desk, and for once she looked at home. There was a plush rug on the floor, decorated with elegant patterns woven in it in gold. The large feathered quill she always carried was resting in its stand, and there were neat stacks of papers and carefully arranged books on the desk and shelves. Josephine was sitting comfortably in an upholstered chair that matched the rug, holding a mug of something steaming. The Seeker sat across from her, leaning casually in another elegant chair. 

“It just makes me nervous, that’s all.” The Seeker was explaining. 

“You know Leliana will keep her eye on her.” Josephine counselled. 

“She got past us once.” The Seeker muttered. Shit. They were talking about her. Leila inched closer. Coffee, the mug was filled with black coffee. At this hour? 

“And the Inquisitor believes in her.” Josephine said it like his word really was gospel. 

“I know. That one sees the good in everyone.” The Seeker responded with humour and appreciation. “I’m used to battles, Josephine, I’m not used to running around with so many thieves and spies and...mages.” She shrugged. And thief-spy-mages, thought Leila. 

“I must admit he does have a habit of taking in strays,” Josephine cracked a smile, “but if they are strays who wish to help…” 

The Seeker smiled too, chuckling lightly to herself. “I suppose we’re all strays now, after all.” She said. She was calm; thoughtful. “And what about you, what do you make of her?” 

Josephine sipped her coffee. “It’s hard to believe that she has been through so much,”

Leila held her breath for the rest - and done so much, taken so much from -

“and she’s so young…” 

“You believe she truly wants to help.” Said the Seeker. 

Josephine nodded. “But even if she does not, the Inquisition can show her humanity, she has gone far too long without it.” 

The seeker agreed, humbled, and Leila had to dash as lightly as she could across the main hall and into the stairwell, invisibility faltering as her breath caught in her throat. 

\----

She regained her composure on the stairs, and kept herself invisible again in the library until she found a dark alcove and a shelf to slink behind. 

She started looking at books, blending in. There were shelves and stacks and piles on tables, most of their titles in language that was too academic to make sense of. A few mages were seated about, reading quietly, as well as a soldier here and there, out of uniform, off duty. 

She heard laughter again - always laughter in this place - and turned toward the sound. There he was, voice ringing out like wind chimes in the quiet library: the Inquisitor. He was at a table with another man, this one dark-haired and richly dressed. The Tevinter mage? That one no one liked. Chantry called him a snake, and the Venatori wanted him dead almost as much as they did the elf. He flirts with the scouts, but the villagers found him haughty. One of the soldiers was watching, and some mages were whispering. Not so well-liked here, either. Except.

The Tevinter mage was laughing, straining to keep it hushed. The Inquisitor was talking quietly, leaning over some book. Invisible, she drew a little closer. They were talking about magic, discussing something in earnest of which she only understood a few words. Both were engrossed in the topic and in each other, leaning close. She slipped away, taking the first book she saw, the tinkling sound of quiet laughter following behind her. 

\----

Still invisible, she eyed the mage who sat reading below the library. He appeared to be totally engrossed, or maybe already asleep. The wall near him was freshly painted; pieces of an unfinished mural were still shiny with wet paint. She stepped out into the room to admire it. 

“Hello there.” Said the mage, without looking up from his book. She froze. “You can come out you know, there’s no need to hide.”

She dropped the spell. The mage closed his book, and stood to greet her. “Your name is Leila, is it not?” His accent was like the Inquisitor’s, but different. He didn’t look like a circle mage - something about the robes, and the necklace made of bone. She remembered notes on an elven apostate fighting with the Inquisition. 

“And yours is Solas.” She said, mostly sure of it. The mage nodded. 

“Still spying, I see.” He commented, amused. “Who for?” 

She tensed again. “I was just-” She tried to reign in the panic in her voice, to say something sharp and proud. He stopped her, smiling. 

“It’s alright, you want to know where you really are, as you should.” He said with a nod. “Still, allow me to welcome you. I understand you have done something rather remarkable.” 

“Have I?” He wasn’t there, in the fight. She wondered what it was he thought he knew.

“To shatter the bonds of one’s master is a remarkable thing on its own.” He answered. “And I’m told you did it with flair” 

She cringed at the poetry of his words, the easy congratulatory tone, the humble smile. The word _master._ It felt wrong, but it wasn’t. Blood running down her hands, her neck burning, fire going out in his evil eyes. Once she had the knife it was easy. 

“Flair.” She said, “sure.” 

He watched her for a long moment, considering. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, adjusted how she was carrying the book and the ale, eyed the doorway. He stepped to the side, providing a way out. “Will you stay here, now that you are free?” He asked as he did. 

She shrugged. “Not like there’s anywhere else.” The answer was incomplete, dishonest. “And I have some things to make up for.” She amended. 

The elf nodded. “I look forward to fighting alongside you, then.” He said, extending a hand to shake. She shook it quickly and left, making herself invisible for the entire way back to the room. 

\----

The night settled into quiet, so Leila settled into a seat on the bed, sinking into pillows, toes tucked into the sheets, the new book on her lap, and the oil lamp lit at the bedside. 

The book was dreadful. Full of words that meant nothing to her, references to officials she hadn’t heard of, impacted with densely written rules and footnotes to more rules. Her eyes grew heavy and then fell shut as the lamplight died. 

\----

Smoke leaves the wick of the lamp in thin grey wisps. 

The red smoke is in her eyes, and she’s moving. She feels the burning on her neck, tries to reach up and touch it, but she can’t. He isn’t here, but he’s in her head, moving her limbs. Get out. _Get out._ Magic flows through her, ice forming at her fingertips. _Stop._ The bound man is crying, muttering the Chant between whimpers. Kill him, says everything. _No,_ says what’s left of her. An icicle as thick and sharp as her daggers pierces his throat. She can’t even scream. 

Everything is red. _Out out out._ It works. She flickers, invisible to visible, vision red, clear again, black. Her head slams against the floor, she feels the cut at her side, and another, and another. She looks up, into his face, his eyes blend into the red smoke, blood spills from his mouth, a slash against his throat, burning on her neck. 

Her face feels cold on the floor, and her cheek aches. Shadows of wolf mouths are laughing on the wall, teeth pointed and hungry. “Don’t count if it aint people.” The shadows snarl. She hears heavy boots in her ear, feels the pressure against her back. “Lost, little one?” 

A hand pulls her up, pushes her into a tall mage with grey hair and a blue nightdress. Her arms wrap around her, pulling her into softness and safety. She looks up into the woman’s face, but she can’t see her through the mists of red. She’s getting further away, eyes glowing. Blood spills from the gasping mouth, a long slice across the throat. Pride, anger, her vision goes red again. Fear. 

She hears the clank of metal chains breaking, of cells opening, and something pushes against her legs. She turns to follow it, and finds an open cage. Elves inside, huddled, scared. The crying boy won’t talk so she just shouts, and then she hears the soft elvish words.

It means _"_ _you are going to be ok"_ , she knows.

It means _"_ _you are safe now"._

She’s holding the child now, looking at his frightened face, holding him tight to her chest. She can’t remember how the words sounded as she walks him out of the cave. 

She hears the sizzling before she feels it, and then she can’t even feel. She screams but isn’t sure if it’s making sound, every muscle is tense, and everything is red. He rises before her, a phantom of black robes and bloodied shadow, digging into her with fire, pulling her arms and legs to movement. _Get out get out get out get out._ But it’s wrong, she doesn’t know how to do that yet, that comes much later. She feels the push, this time. A firm press that spins her toward a new face. 

Nessa is singing nursery rhymes; silly little ditties about animals and all their sounds, songs teaching letters and numbers. She does the hand actions along with the song, and the young ones giggle. They love her funny shadow puppets. She makes bunnies hop, dogs bark, a wolf howl. Heavy boots come thudding down the streets, her face hits the ground and her cheek scrapes against the rough stone. She feels a pull at her shoulder and spins around, facing more red mist. 

Stop it. The back of her neck aches. There’s a gentle push forward at her ankles, she looks down but there’s nothing there. _Stop it_. She shouts aloud, to the nothing. 

_Ar lasa mala revas._ That’s what the Inquisitor told him, the crying boy in her arms. She hands the boy to the Templar while whispering it in his ear. No. Something is whispering in her ear. 

_GET OUT._

\----

Leila woke up, stiff cold sheets tangled around her ankles, her cheek pressed against the hardwood floor. 

Orlais

“I think that’s enough for today.” Dorian said, lowering his staff. They were getting in one last practice session before Halamshiral, but it hadn't been more than an hour, and the whole time Dorian had seemed distracted. 

“Need a drink?” She asked as they walked together back into Skyhold. 

“Several.” Dorian said. 

Leila crossed her arms. She had been training with Dorian regularly for the last couple months, taking any chance to spar together, or to study some of the finer points of basic magical theory. Usually, it was surprisingly fun. He got excited about every new trick she picked up, encouraged her to try things her own way, let her break some of the rules - though not all - in the Circle tomes. He also liked to show off, but she didn’t really mind; she liked to watch. Over the course of all this work, they hadn’t exactly grown close, but Dorian was shameless and extravagant; he told exciting stories about scandalous parties, and disputes with teachers that turned to duels. Sometimes, especially in the evenings when just a few of them were camped out in some new demon-ridden place, he’d talk about Tevinter - the magic there, more than the people - and she knew about his family, why he was here.

She knew him well, by now. His confidence was mostly real, not like hers. When people around him whispered and stared, he basked in it. He made a point to be flashy and charming, to laugh in the face of anyone who thought themselves better than him. It felt easier to walk around this place when he was there to soak up all the attention. 

She also knew that only one thing disturbed his composure like this, and it had been happening a lot. 

“So, I take it you and the Inquisitor had another talk?” She asked. The Tevinter mage that made the scouts blush, pining. 

“What’s this? Have you given up spying on my romantic life and resorted to asking directly?” Dorian teased sourly. 

Leila rolled her eyes. “Maybe I was trying to be nice.” She said, and she meant it. Trying. 

Dorian sighed, long and dramatic. “Can’t we talk about you for a change?” 

Leila shrugged. “You’re much more interesting.” She said. Obvious flattery was his favourite. 

“You, my friend, are absolutely fascinating.” He countered, responding in kind. Leila shrank a little, it was not hers.

“No romantic life to speak of though, makes for less juicy gossip.” She deflected.

“Oh no?” Dorian quipped, “Not even a certain Commander? You two were rather chummy at the party the other night, there might already be rumours…” 

Leila stopped walking. Dorian, surprised, stopped to look back at her. “Don’t even joke.” She said, coldly. 

“Alright,” said Dorian, he’d changed tone, taken aback by the sudden rebuttal, “I won’t.” 

They entered the tavern as the sun was setting. A reasonable crowd had gathered, and there were a few familiar faces about, but Dorian chose a smaller table, and offered Leila a seat. He bought the first round of drinks for both of them as well, without any questions. He was always doing things like that; these automatic gestures of courtesy that he took on with confidence, without a second thought. It wasn’t that he was particularly generous or overtly considerate, like Josephine, just that he was accustomed to the treatment. He wasn’t _polite_ ; he swore and insulted as needed, poked fun where he could, made a show of himself, but he was respectful. Even to her. 

“I shouldn’t have assumed, I apologise.” Dorian said, before taking up his drink. That was the other thing he did - he could tease, even insult, but never did he leave a misstep unaddressed. 

He had a temper, not irritable like her own, but proud, yet he mainly reserved it for fights with Venatori and demons, and apologised when it led to outbursts among his peers. She looked at her drink, waiting for this part to be over. With her, especially, he was careful. Their rapport came on easy; arrogant jesting and sarcasm were about the best social skills she had, but her own temper could not handle having too much be asked of it, and he accommodated that without argument. He was desperately caring, beneath the charm. It was what he had in common with the Inquisitor. 

“His soldiers aren’t still talking, are they?” Dorian asked carefully, “You know, we could have Sera pull some pranks…” 

She maintained eye contact with her drink. This was the other thing she couldn’t get used to- from Dorian, from all of them.

\----

Some weeks ago, before the Warden and the Champion came to Skyhold, they had spent a week as part of the Inquisitor’s party establishing a Keep and clearing away bandits from a fortress in Crestwood. Soldiers and scouts came to build up the base when they took it, and the Inquisitor had stayed, helping with requisitions, fighting stray bandits, even recruiting new agents from the town he had helped. 

Until that mission, Leila had only volunteered to fight on occasions where the Inquisitor had a small party camp in the wilderness to tackle immediate problems. They had excavated temples in sandy deserts in Orlais, and sealed rifts while helping refugees in the muddy fields of Ferelden. There might have been a few scouts around, but otherwise those camps were made up of some combination of his inner circle; most often the likes of Sera, Dorian, Varric, and sometimes Warden Blackwall, or the Iron Bull. The Inquisitor would light a campfire, maybe he would even cook, and if Varric was there he would talk, and she could sit and disappear in it, or let it guide her to sleep in her own little tent, in the open air and on the solid ground.

But this time they had not just stopped demons, but established a hold. And the whole place had become crowded with soldiers and scouts. The Inquisitor, paragon of good grace that he was, had extended his welcome full-hearted to everyone at the keep, inviting soldiers to his fires, working earnestly with his builders and smiths. 

Leila had sought to disappear. Skyhold was one thing. There, she had places to close off, alone. Or she could choose the distraction of work, and of game and drink and posturing with whoever was at it at the tavern. There were walls and guards, but at least she knew the exits.

The Seeker, Cassandra, had come, always present when things were more official, and always watching her when she was. She and Blackwall had attracted the soldiers, impressing and inspiring them without even trying. The Inquisitor, as always, drew stares, but he took them with humility. Dorian had seemed unaffected. Though some had stared at him too, he had been preoccupied with his dislike of the weather and the accommodations. Leila had stayed discreet, if not invisible. 

It had been raining all evening. But after long days of dirty work, nothing could keep Dorian from a warm fire. One had been built in the courtyard, central and large, and he had helped to keep it burning despite the rain. The keep around it was under repair, and tents had been set up as well as makeshift stalls and a burgeoning armoury. Soldiers and scouts had gathered about, and the Inquisitor had been pulled into conversation with the Requisitions Officer. Leila had sat as far from the light as she could. 

There from her place in the shadows she had heard soldiers whispering together; about the Warden, the Inquisitor, the Seeker. Excitedly, they had shared tales of what they’d heard each had done, of daring fights and impressive accomplishments. Then the conversation had moved to what they had seen there, in Crestwood. 

“That Grey Warden took out three bandits before I could even lift my sword.” Said one, to agreeing murmurs on Blackwall’s swordsmanship. 

“You seen him sleep yet? No wonder they call him the Mad Elf.” Said another. “Literally handed me this bowl of soup. And it's not half bad!” The Inquisitor, strangest man alive. 

“Seeker Cassandra’s even prettier, up close.” Said a woman in armour, impressed.

“I’d wager she’d kill you, you let her catch you saying it.” Replied another soldier. 

“Maker I’d let her.” The woman said with a wistful sigh. 

It had gone on like that, complementary and proud; even in regards to Dorian, who charmed even when he was miserable and wet. Then the gossip had gotten to her. 

“You seen the one who stabbed the Commander yet? Heard she was about. Staying out of sight though, creepy.”

“You hear she was the one that got Marlowe?” Said a scout. “Should have just stabbed her back, you ask me.” 

More muttering, and a whisper about “demon possession” later, and Leila had stood up, turning her back on the fire and the talk. She hadn’t walked far, only turned into the dark hallway of the old fortress, when Dorian had come following behind her. He hadn’t commented on what he must have overheard, only brought her back out to the fire to show her some rune, offering a flask to share and easily spinning conversation for the both of them, but he had, at night’s end, left her with one serious word of advice. 

“It doesn’t matter why they think you’re here.” He had said. “It only matters that you are.” 

\----

Still looking at her drink, Leila shook her head. “Just makes me want to stop spending time around other people.” She grumbled.

“Oh dear, please don’t stop spending time with me!” Dorian pleaded with put-on melodrama, his eyes smiling as he made a show of looking forlorn, “you’re about the only mage in this place I can stand, most days.”

Leila gave him a disbelieving look. “The Inquisitor is a mage.” She said, a smirk emerging as she fired back, “you know, the one you keep daydreaming about as you stare longingly into the middle distance?” 

Dorian slouched into his drink. Something was wrong; Dorian did not slouch. “The Inquisitor is the _Inquisitor_.” He said, “that’s something entirely different.” 

“You know he just wants to be a person.” Leila replied, but she understood it. Despite his approachable demeanour, _Inquisitor_ was a title long grown beyond the elf himself. And though he encouraged his companions to be candid with him, he was still ‘the Inquisitor’ in her mind. But that was her. She had seen how he and Dorian were around one another, all vibrant conversation and long looks; everyone had. 

“Well he can’t be.” Dorian countered, becoming increasingly grumpy. Leila raised an eyebrow. 

“Aren’t you sleeping with him now?” She asked, offended on the Inquisitor’s behalf and once again surprised that she cared. 

“I thought you weren’t spying on my romantic life.” Dorian said. 

“Don’t have to be a spy for that.” Leila replied. Dorian sighed. 

“That did sound horrible, didn’t it?” He said, his tone contrite. “But in any case, half the time I really _can't_ stand him. He shouldn’t...be like that. He can’t.”

Leila took a drink, and set it down with a shrug. She rubbed at wrists that had only months ago been shackled. “Pretty sure I believe he can do anything.” She said. She did, despite herself. Not because he'd been chosen by the Maker, she agreed with him on that. The Mad Elf simply never _stopped_. 

Dorian sighed. “Maybe you’re right.” He said, and he sounded almost hopeful. He took another sip of his drink and made a face. 

“Maker, I cannot wait until we get to the Winter Palace. It has been too long since I’ve had real wine.” 

Leila took a drink as well. “Wine might be the only good thing about Orlais.” She said. 

Dorian’s mood improved with one drink and some lighter conversation, and Leila was glad for the company and the familiar warmth in her cheeks. Now back in Skyhold, she was having trouble sleeping. Something about having the time and security to safely rest each night brought about more dreams. She preferred the lighter sleep of being on duty, always prepared for a fight. So, as Dorian switched earlier than usual to water, Leila ordered another pint, and when Dorian decreed a need for beauty sleep to ready himself for the Orlesian court, Leila stayed another two hours, downing drinks until she could be served no more, and once the tavern was set to close she paid her tab, and slouched away - though not before invisibly taking one more bottle, which she tucked into her coat and brought away to her room. 

\----

It felt good to be drunk. Her head swam a little and her balance came off kilter, but her thoughts were further away and funnier, and nothing too heavy could reach her through the fog. It felt good to be drunk, and free. And this was real and better and right, she reminded herself. She wasn’t a thief, or anything else, she was _Inquisition_. She took a swig from the bottle and giggled. Well, maybe she was a little bit of a thief. It felt good to be drunk. 

She took up a book from beside the bed. Even drunk, it was better to keep her mind busy. She found a chapter on stances for ice spells, and began looking for variations on forms she could apply in her own way. She stepped into the middle of the room and tried a clumsy spin with her daggers, throwing a blade of ice as she did. It ricocheted off the mirror she still kept turned away in the corner and knocked a loose shingle from the roof. She stopped, shocked, and panic absorbed her for a moment. Heart beating in her throat, ears straining against the quiet, muscles braced. The moment was followed with more silence, and Leila let out her breath, swaying where she stood. She giggled and sat back on the bed. No more magic then. She looked at the spot in the corner where she had damaged the roof. It would leak again. Oops. 

At some point sleep found her, the bottle empty on the bedside table, and her book still open beside her. 

\---

It starts with red mist and pain, flashes of bloody hands, the feeling of magic coursing through her. She runs from the dreams, tossing herself into half awake states, feeling her surroundings, taking a breath, and closing her eyes again. The alcohol keeps her sleep light, and she’s gotten better at noticing the dreams, jumping out of them. She falls again each time into something new, flashes of memories that she wishes would stay faded; nightmares of a life of survival and chains, and the things she had forgotten, from before that. 

It ends with Orlais. Verchiel, stealing something for reasons that are blurry. Listening to tales and songs in the evenings over wine. Her stomach churns, why does she hate it here? Music on warm summer air. He smiles at her, the boy with sandy hair and teeth that are shiny and straight. _Not you._

She knows it’s a dream, she’s gotten better at recognising them. His smile is a thin, vicious lie. The dream tells her that she feels trust, but her stomach is clenched and lurching.

Leila awoke, bounded in three fast and desperate steps to a wash-bucket, and threw up. 

\----

She couldn’t get back to sleep. After tossing from uncomfortable thoughts to unwanted memories for an hour or so, she gave up. Her stomach felt empty and tired from the misuse of drink, and a headache was threatening to arrive any minute. 

She lurched unhappily out of bed. Fuck it, she would sleep on the road. The wagons taking them to Halamshiral would leave in a few hours, that would have to be good enough. For tonight, she would lend her thieving skills to the task of stealing from the kitchens. 

She made her way through the stairways and halls quietly. She didn’t bother using any spell; she knew the layout of Skyhold now, the routines of the guards. Nights were quiet, inside. A few guards rotating positions at the gates, on the battlements, and in other key spots, but the fortress took its strength from the mountains. Even the security measures which were brought about after her own intrusion hadn’t added any patrols to the narrow servant halls leading to the kitchens. 

She froze and broke the lock. Not very graceful, and extraordinarily obvious, but easy. Besides, they would be away at least three weeks; she was banking on the action being inconsequential by the time they returned. Once inside she found the pantry, throwing bread and some other plain and inoffensive nutrients into a small sack in haste. Her stomach still churned unhappily, and though it was glaringly empty it also still felt agitated. She grabbed a bottle of cooking liquor off a shelf. Hair of the Mabari. She took a swig and nearly gagged. Never mind. Coffee, then, if she was to be awake. She rummaged about until she found some approximation of the necessary supplies - ground coffee, a sieve, a small copper pot - she almost laughed to herself wondering what the ambassador might say. 

In the span of ten minutes Leila had quietly assembled her rations and cleaned the kitchen back up, stepping out into the halls of the sleeping fortress again with a mug in her hands and a stale picnic slung in a sack over her shoulder. She took a meandering path, aimless through the darkened halls. She wandered past the quiet library and out through the vacuous main hall, settling finally in the courtyard garden. She took a seat on one of the benches, the stone cold through her thin leggings, and sipped at the coffee. It was gritty, and now lukewarm. 

\----

“Trouble sleeping?” She recognised the voice as Solas’. She knew him now; not directly, but through observation. He spent most of his time in Skyhold, reading and researching, painting and sleeping. He liked to talk about magic, about his travels in the fade - ancient histories found in dreams - but these weren’t the things he talked about with her. With her, he was mainly curious. 

It wasn’t that he was unkind. He was polite, and he was careful. But he wasn’t kind the way Dorian was; meeting her where she stood with petty jokes and sarcastic banter, bringing her into conversations like she belonged. Nor was he welcoming in the way of Sera, Bull and Blackwall, who fought in the field readily and often, proud and entertained; turning violent acts of rebellion into a game she could lose herself in, and laugh about over drinks. It suited her, to laugh at atrocities; at pain. Nor were his stories soothing, like Varric’s, instead he tended to drone in words that were too large for her, and it made her feel small. 

He was polite, and he was careful, and his kindness assumed so much. When he spoke to her, she felt that what he really wanted was to _know_ \- about blood magic and bondage, her life as an apostate; struggle. He wasn’t the only one who was curious. Dorian asked plenty of questions, excitedly, his eyes lighting up when he discovered that she cast her ice like _like that_ , and the Inquisitor, well, it was in the name. But Solas’ curiosity came tangled in his kindness, and it all felt too presumptive, too saccharine; too much like she was a tragic figure from one of his dreams, and not a person standing right there. While the Inquisitor asked many more questions, she knew it was because he had to, that he did so while thinking of battle tactics and leadership. And, unlike the Inquisitor, she didn’t owe Solas anything. 

\----

“I do find myself wondering about the kind of person who could survive such hardships, Leila. You must have a strong spirit indeed. How did you maintain such strength?” It was something he had asked very early on, when she had only been with the Inquisition a couple of weeks. The question was complimentary and wrong, and she’d clenched her fists when she answered.

“Push ups.” She had answered flatly, saying something sarcastic and bitter to shut him up. Sera had laughed, moving the conversation on. She still didn’t have a real answer, and every time Solas talked to her it felt like he was looking for one. 

\----

“You’re having nightmares.” He said, coming up beside her. “I can see them when I dream.” 

She took a sip of gritty coffee, realising. “You poked around in them before, didn’t you?” Fist clenching, she might actually punch him this time. 

He nodded. “You remember.” 

“I remember kicking something out of my head.” She said coldly, “I thought it was Cole.” She had been giving the spirit a wide berth. Dorian called him friendly, but as a rule she didn’t like things that could get in her head.

“I apologise for the intrusion.” He spoke gently, as always, and while she cared little for his apology her fist did loosen slightly. “Cole did see your pain, so he asked me to help. Sometimes I can reach others in dreams, guide them. If there is a nightmare, guide them out.” He said. 

She pulled a chunk of bread from the bag and picked at it. “You had no right.” She said, not looking at him. 

“That’s true.” He said, to her surprise. She looked up. “Mages are vulnerable in their nightmares,” he explained, “demons seek out their fear and pain in the fade, looking to corrupt. I feared your dreams could lead you to them. Still, it was wrong of me not to tell you.” 

Afraid she would be possessed by demons. Everyone was. She chewed at the dense bread. “I’ve made it this far.” She muttered, mouth full. 

“That you have.” Said Solas. “Your ability to push out unwanted presences from the fade must have helped you. If you had been brought up differently, you might have trained to be able to travel in dreams, as I do.” He said. She knew what a dreamer was. Dorian had explained, finding her chapters from various texts and describing their different incarnations in myth enthusiastically because she had made the mistake of asking him what Solas was talking about. She didn’t remember the lectures, but she understood that what Solas did was not something just any mage could do. Apparently, he still thought she was more than just any mage. Andraste’s tits, she was barely a mage. 

“I can do that _because_ of what happened, Solas.” She said. “And I’m still fine with daggers, ice, and vanishing, thanks.” Not quite true. She liked learning about magic; with Dorian she had learned to cast barriers and seal deeper wounds, and there were new ways to innovate with her daggers and the bolts of ice she liked to fight with, but all of that was practical, and none of it needed a staff. Solas’ idea of interesting magic was slow and patient, long rituals and communing with spirits. 

“Because of what happened?” Solas repeated. “You mean you learned to will yourself free from blood magic control?” He sounded so impressed. Unwarranted. 

“I had time to practice.” She said, shrugging. Let him be. Maybe then he won’t try to get into your head again. 

“Fascinating.” Said the mage. “I should like to hear more about that one day.” 

She shook her head. “No you wouldn’t.” 

Solas frowned. “I’m sorry.” So many apologies. She finished the rest of the liquid in her mug, leaving a dark, muddy sludge of coffee grinds at the bottom. She stood to dump it out over the garden wall and into the dirt, not looking to Solas as she did. 

“I mean you no offence...” Careful, polite.

“None taken.” She looked out at the dark garden. The night was fading slowly into morning, grey with low-hanging clouds and cold mist while the shadow of leaves rustled in the breeze. The muscles in her eye sockets ached, and it was creeping up to her temples. 

Behind her, Solas sighed. “Leila, I have seen the turmoil that follows you in the fade. I realise that you have little more to go on than my word, but should you ever desire it, I would offer you my help.” That time his speech was firm. And...kind. 

“Anything you’d recommend for a hangover?” She replied, dismissive. 

“Yes.” He said. “A good night’s sleep.” 


	14. Wicked Lies and Desperate Hearts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We interrupt this interruption at a party for another interruption. Or something. 
> 
> Time to get down in the Winter Palace (with a twist!)

“Oh, my dear.” Vivienne appeared reflected behind him in the mirror, more polished than he had ever seen her. It didn’t matter, at this point, what his personal tastes were - the woman simply dazzled. Her robes matched his; black and silver and uniform, though her coat flowed into a cape behind her, and her jewelry and headdress sparkled in finely beaded silver and crystals. “Are you really just going to do _that_ with your hair?” She asked, with a devastating shake of her head.

“I haven’t done anything to my hair.” Taren started.

“Precisely, darling.” Said Vivienne.

Taren frowned, the outfit alone had taken an hour. Apparently, it had to be _steamed_ first. Now there was hair?

“It’s clean and combed, what’s more to do?” He tucked a lock behind his ear. It was long enough to tie up now. Could he not simply tie it up?

“Darling, there can always be more ‘to do’” Said Vivienne with a smile.

Taren looked at himself in the mirror. For what it was worth, the clothes weren’t uncomfortable. The fabric was smooth and light, and even the parts of his jacket that were stiff fit comfortably. It was pretty, and he could move. He appreciated that much, at least. And his hair did look a little out of place, overgrown as it was, against the rest of this sleek attire.

“Perhaps I should just mess it up completely and tell everyone that it’s a wig.” He suggested, returning her smile with one of his own slightly lopsided ones.

She placed one hand delicately on her hip. “My dear, I know that you want to do well here, and you are putting in such a genuine effort already.” The tone and words were complimentary, on the surface. “So might I suggest that you get over this elven pride or whatever it is that is holding you back, and put some pride into your appearance _tonight._ ” She finished, expertly calm in the delivery. Taren’s face was hard, though she was right; he did want to do well. Vivienne softened, after a pause. “I can help you,” she offered, this smile real, “nothing too outlandish, I promise.”

“Fine. I’ll try it,” sighed Taren, “but it isn’t ‘elven pride’, Vivienne. Just pride, the same as yours.”

“Nevertheless, darling, best to be rid of it.” Replied Vivienne, leading him away to have his hair primped and preened. “You’re going to look amazing.”

\----

The ballroom glittered. Every surface was gilded, every table draped in lacy cloth, every candle casting its light through crystal chandeliers. The floors were shiny, the walls were draped in thick velvety curtains, and statues of empresses and emperors past lined the ballroom in white marble and gold.

It was awful.

Big, gaudy, irresponsible. All that wealth on display, a giant facade of prosperity and richness and “ _society_ ”.

Taren smoothed down the front of his coat before striding forward, and a short man in a mask adorned with a gold moustache - why? - read his title.

Taren Lavellan, The Inquisitor, Champion of the Blessed Andraste herself. Gods, when would the night be over?

He descended the stairs to murmurs and curious looks, and reached the Empress at the end, where she stood looking down from her balcony. He bowed low to her and to the Duchess at her side, and joined the crowd.

Taren set to work. He chose his words carefully, spoke with confidence, and when the music started, he concentrated on the dance steps, if it could be called dancing. By the time he made it to Josephine, he was half-sure that she’d be ready to declare the whole thing a failure, but she was beaming.

“You look exquisite.” Were the first, excited words out of her mouth. He smiled with relief.

“So do you.” Taren replied, and he touched his hand lightly, nervously, to his hair. Whatever was in it was sticky, and smelled too strongly of fruits. He felt like a walking fly trap, though he did appreciate how Vivienne had instructed that his tattoos be incorporated into the coiffure. Best to fully embrace what made him unique, she had told him; Orlesians celebrate innovation in fashion. “Vivienne helped.” He admitted.

Josephine gave his stray hand a look, and he stopped fiddling. Leliana came up beside her, then, and gave him a nod to follow. They took up drinks, admired the gardens, danced through the crowd on the ballroom floor, and subtly outlined a course of action for the night through the steps. Leliana could coordinate his people across the ballroom and gardens; gathering secrets, collecting useful information, unlocking doors to places he might want to investigate, and watching those doors for him while he did. He had only to make sure to be seen, as much as possible, among the crowd and on the dance floor.

“Never be away from the spotlight too long, keep your wits about you,” She told him, as the music slowed, “oh, and don’t try the little green cakes, they taste of olives and pistachio; envy, supposedly”

He would have to investigate the rumours of plots against the Empress, and threads lead in every direction. But worse than that, he had onlookers to entertain, curiosity that he was. By the end of their dance he had heard the word “elf” whispered and “Dalish” exclaimed and “mage” snarled more times than he could count.

Leliana left him to join Vivienne for her next dance, assuring him that they could spin the public opinion to his favour in no time at all. He returned to the vestibule, and was immediately surrounded.

\----

Dorian looked out over the ballroom, taking in the lavish dresses and gleaming masks. The fashions were not quite to his taste, but it would have to do. He spotted Sera, Leila, and Krem standing in a slouchy huddle by the refreshments, eating without etiquette, but staying out of the way. How Sera had managed to wrinkle her outfit already was beyond him. Varric was near them, regailing eager crowds with his stories, no doubt. And somewhere, among all this frivolity, would have to be the Inquisitor. He scanned the vestibule.

There he was, standing tall among a crowd of noble admirers, smooth black-and-silver uniform standing out among the sea of lace and frill. He looked good. _Very_ good. He wore the same silk shirt and structured black overcoat as Dorian and all the other members of the Inquisition party, though his coat was more elaborate, falling in long pointed tails edged in silver, and adorned with a broach indicating his importance - eye and sword; the Inquisitor. And his hair! Someone had anointed it with gems, woven through a tight braid that was pinned with a silver clasp to the rest, which was slicked back from where it usually fell in haphazard waves about his face. On the right side, where Taren usually kept his hair shaved back to reveal the tattoos which spread down from behind his temple and high over his forehead, the hair had been painstakingly shaved into intricate patterns which followed the Dalish designs, and mimicked them where they ended. Of course, the tattoos didn’t really end - Dorian knew - but rather trailed behind the ear to his neck, over his right shoulder and along the arm to the elbow, as well as down his back until they emerged again over his left ribs, spreading upward until they came to an encircling pattern about his heart... Dorian attempted to stop picturing the Inquisitor naked.

He looked _incredible_. Strong and regal despite his smaller stature, and even at a distance Dorian could glean the sparkle in his soft eyes. But, he was smiling. Not the full-bodied and toothy smile that came after one of his goofy jokes or at the light of new discoveries, nor the crooked one, left-leaning and natural, that seemed to befall his face whenever he was at ease. This was a thin smile, tight lipped and closed off. And while he always stood straight, this straightness was rigid, propped up by stiff arms and high shoulders. His left hand - ungloved, displaying the glow for all to admire - was twitching and playing restlessly with a silver cufflink on his sleeve. Taren was uncomfortable, and as Dorian drew nearer - effortlessly taking up two glasses of sparkling wine from a servant’s tray as he moved through the crowd - he began to understand why.

“So you are the great Herald of Andraste,” he heard a portly man say as he approached, incredulous and challenging, “that must have caused a terrible crisis of faith.” Now laughter, and the man was eying Taren’s tattoos, his eye trailing to where the patterns over his neck disappeared beneath his shirt collar.

The crowd was in the process of asking about them _(Did they cover his whole body? Did all clans so mark their people? How long did it take? Were they magical like the Mark? What does this one mean? And that? Or is it all one meaning? Did the process hurt? To children, your people do this?)_ when Dorian skillfully interrupted.

“Inquisitor, have none of these fine people provided you with a drink?” He asked pleasantly, sliding through the crowd and offering Taren a glass. Taren took it gingerly. “Sylaise’enaste.” Said Dorian, lifting his own glass in toast.

Taren lifted his glass too, remembered not to actually touch the delicate crystal to Dorian’s, and took a modest sip.

Dorian smiled at him. “You know, it’s no substitute for the real thing,” he remarked, taking a sip himself, “but the Orlesians do make a decent _gealathe’hyn.”_ The word for the elven wine - he had looked it up. And, as it turned out, Orlais probably had stolen the concept of sparkling fruit wines from the Dalish.

Taren was looking at him with a stunned expression, and he was sure that he had butchered the pronunciation, but the Orlesians around him looked thoroughly embarrassed. He turned to the portly man now, perfectly timing how long he had interrupted without introduction - just long enough to make a point, but not so long as to be unrefined.

“Dorian of House Pavus,” he greeted him cheerily, and took another sip of the wine. “Once you’ve had it made with real juneberries, it just isn’t quite the same.” He said knowingly, though that part he had made up. He had no idea what sorts of berries went into the wine Taren had shared with him.

“House Pavus?” Said the portly man, “not a familiar name, where is your estate?” Oh, but he was _bad_ at this. This would be fun.

“Tevinter,” Dorian responded in the same pleasant tone, “though I’m surprised you don’t know it, Comte Guillaume de Chaudière, your Lordship, as much a fan of Magister Verixsus’ parties as you are.” There was an audible _ooh_ from the crowd.

“Tevinter,” Came a surprised voice - a Chevallier, either Paul-Edward du Montcalme or Marc-Edouard du Montclaire, he couldn’t keep the two apart - “my, but the Inquisition seems to be just full of _noble savages._ ”

“Did you see the Qunari? Surprisingly good manners, for such a beast.” Said the other one, whichever he was. At least they were both there. Beside him, Taren’s hand was twitching again, into a fist.

“Yes, well, I suppose your outfit would know a thing or two about savagery, Ser Marc-Edouard. But perhaps it would be inelegant to comment on the retirement of Ser Alexandre, so soon.” He heard Taren say, to another murmur of “ _oooh_ ”s, and Maker, it took everything in him not to kiss him right there.

Instead, Dorian responded in good humour, and led the Chevaliers away with the promise of more stories. _(Would you believe the Inquisition is aided even by Avar?)_ He would cut deeper into their pride in a moment, of course, but this was a long game. And he would be sure to allow Bull in on the fun, let him show off some of those surprisingly good manners.

Taren’s fist was still clenched when Dorian walked off, half the crowd now following him, enthralled. But the tense smile was gone, replaced with a look of professional assuredness, his shoulders were back and straight, and no one was pestering him about his face. His beautiful, lovely, perfect face. Honestly, how fucking dare they?

\----

Instructions came through nods and whispers: eavesdrop here, search there. But there was time also for socializing, dancing, and mingling among the crowd - if they wanted it. Which Sera, Leila, and Krem honestly did not. So instead they partook in different games. Sera did the voices, and Krem picked the marks, pointing out the most ridiculous looking guests he could see for Sera to improvise dialogue.

“My dear, I would so love to invite you to my cottage this summer, we can shuffle along the beach in our fine, pointy shoes!” As a man in tall, pointed, emerald-and-sapphire encrusted boots bowed low to invite one of the ladies to dance.

“Oh but monsieur, if I were to produce so much as one drop of sweat, the contraption upon my head would disintegrate! We shall have to have our rendezvous in the winter. Then, I shall show you my great bushy nethers, they are why I walk so, you understand?” A woman wearing a headdress that appeared to be made out of thousands of thin pink threads, like some kind of sparkling candy floss, accepted the dance, and waddled stiffly to the floor with the man.

Sera cackled, Leila laughed, and Krem pointed to another.

They kept on, inventing ludicrous dialogue, sampling and ranking the assortment of cakes, playing a drinking game in which one had to guess an hors d'oeuvre’s flavour and drink every time they were wrong - and they often were (what looked to be chocolate pastry was in fact deep mushrooms and dates, what looked to be a cucumber and cheese sandwich was in fact pickled lime and coconut… soon they discovered that the orange cakes were in fact made with oranges, and simply stuck to those) . All in all, the evening was turning out to be surprisingly enjoyable, and the free drink didn’t hurt.

In time, however, Sera was called away. Her Jennies had left stashes, and it behooved her to find them before the night was through. Leila and Krem were left together a little longer, continuing to make jokes at the expense of Orlesian outfits and enjoying the free alcohol off to the side of the grand ballroom.

“So, you used to steal from folks like these?” Krem asked, eying the crowd.

“Used to?” Leila replied, a sly smile on her face as she pulled up a sleeve to reveal several glittering bracelets and rings adorning her right hand, which had absolutely not been part of the uniform.

Krem shook his head, though he was chuckling. “Shit, you need a new nickname.” He said.

The Chargers had taken after Varric in calling her Sparrow, and she had used the name instead of her own for the guestlist. It wasn’t as entertaining as Sera’s choice of pseudonym, but the anonymity felt safe, and, honestly, she just liked it. Leila was a name attached to nothing, it had come with a last name, once - Naismith - an occupational name that meant her parents, or maybe their parents, had been knife-makers, but there had never been any chance of following in a family business, and over the years she had pretended at many other names that fit better for the occupations she had truly taken on. Then, of course, there had been those two years of namelessness, where she was Leila only to herself, because she had to be something, and sometimes being that was still exhausting. But Sparrow was flighty, as Varric said, and tattooed on sailors they were symbols of luck, perseverance, and journeys travelled. A lucky bird who had travelled far. Varric had known her all of one week before he found her a name that fit better than her own.

“Maybe Sticky.” Krem joked. Leila shot him a look, which he laughed aside.

She probably shouldn’t be stealing, it was true. She had no use for jewels. But then, neither did these pompous fools. She had taken them for the game of it, because she could and because they sparkled. Birds like shiny things, after all. She shrugged.

“A bit on the nose, but I guess you lot like that.” The Chargers had a dwarf named Rocky, a healer named Stitches, and an elf who went by Dalish. She had gotten to know them fairly well, often finding herself at their table in the tavern for cards and drinks.

“You know, we could probably use a thief named Sticky.” Krem said, “maybe you should join, after this is through.” He suggested casually.

Leila was surprised. The Inquisition was one thing, she owed the organization a debt, and had vowed under very serious circumstances to repay it. But the Chargers were acquaintances with good stories, a mercenary outfit with a hardy reputation. Outside of her few exploits as someone helping to not end the world, she was still just a bandit.

“You even allowed to make that call?” She asked, skeptical.

Now it was Krem’s turn to shrug. “I am second in command, you know. Besides, the way Bull says you fight, I’m sure it wouldn’t be a problem.”

The man was serious. Blighted hell, who was thinking about an after, in this mess?

“You barely know me.”

“Bull ever tell you the story of how he recruited me?” Krem asked, waiving away the protest.

Leila shook her head.

“Well it’s also the story of how we met, and how he lost his eye. Don’t need to know anything other than you being a bastard who won’t go down easy. You are that, right?” He smiled at her, still casually suggesting at some kind of future.

Leila didn’t have time to figure out a response; they did not go completely unnoticed, and the black and silver uniform attracted attention from nobles with blunt questions and dissenting looks.

\----

“Ah, are you two with zee Eenquizition?” The accent was fake, Leila had spent enough time in Orlais to recognize that.

“We are.” Said Krem. The woman hadn’t addressed him, only Leila, as he was wearing black, but not the matching ensemble of the rest of the party.

“Oh! Did zey run out of silk for you, dear?” The woman tossed Krem an insulted look, her lip curled around the question.

“No, I’m just the uh… hired muscle.” Krem said, though his cheeks were reddening.

“Hired muscle? I do not understand. Why would zee Eenquizition need zis?” Oh maker, Leila thought, make it stop.

Krem looked to Leila, eyes desperate for a reason he could give the woman. Leila opened her mouth, but only a long and hesitant vowel sound managed to come forth.

Then, Dorian materialized in front of them holding a flute of sparkling wine and smiling like had just been let in on a secret.

“Ah, Lady Duquense, I see you have made the acquaintance of our esteemed ambassador.” He said, winking at Krem.

Krem quickly followed suit. “Right, Miss Sparrow here requires extra protection, you see, as she is so very uh...esteemed.” He said.

Leila tried not to snort.

“Esteemed! But I have not heard of zis Mizz Sparrow, do tell us more.” The noble woman was joined by another, this one wearing a gold mask inlaid with countless tiny fleur de lis.

“Yes, I thought the Lady Montilyet was the Inquisition’s ambassador.” Said this other woman, her tone disbelieving.

“She is, for Antiva.” Said Dorian without missing a beat. “While the three of us hail from Tevinter, naturally.”

Dorian continued on to spin a wild tale about the Lady Sparrow, the mysterious Tevinter ambassador with nebulous connections to the Black Divine, and her equally-esteemed bodyguard, Cremisius. The ladies left satisfied with their new gossip, and as soon as they had both Krem and Leila punched him in the arm, simultaneously; Krem on the left, and Leila on the right.

“Bodyguard my ass!” Krem exclaimed, while punching, “you ass.”

“Tevinter ambassador?” Complained Leila, “I’m from fucking Fereleden.”

And for the next minute or so, none of the three could seem to stop laughing.

Fake names, Leila realised with a sudden clarity as the laughter subsided, but real laughter, real invitations, and, maybe, real friendship.

She took a drink from a nearby tray and quickly downed it. Maker, at least there was real alcohol.

\----

“How the hell did you do that?” Bull asked, watching the two Chevaliers slink away, their faces full of shame. “I thought I was good at this shit, but you…”

Dorian smiled. “What can I say, it’s a gift.”

He had brought the Chevaliers over along with several other admirers eager to gawk at the great beast of a Qunari in the gardens, and Bull had indulged them with an intimidatingly charming smile and his tallest tale. Then, one of the blighters had said something snide, and Dorian, faster than Bull could blink at the insult, had hit back with a snappy quip, sending his audience into titters.

“Oh, I certainly hope your skills with a sword are more well honed than your wit.” He had scoffed, “Tell me, was it a wyvern I heard you boasting about killing earlier, I’m sure my friend here would greatly appreciate the tale.”

Bull had let the whole story go on, until the Chevalier had produced a feather from his cap that he claimed to have belonged to the beast. Bull recognized it for a simple pheonix feather, and he implied as much with tact, much to their chagrin. Dorian, then, somehow, produced an actual dragon claw, dipped in gold and hung on a chain around his neck.

“If we are to compare trophies, this is one you might appreciate. Of course, Bull tells the story of that hunt better than me. You took this claw yourself, didn’t you?”

They had shamed the boastful Chevaliers together with the story, and impressed the remaining nobles in turn with their impeccably performed politeness.

Now, as the Chevaliers left for easier to impress conversationalists, Bull was ready to turn his attention to the few remaining nobles who seemed less eager to insult, and ready for more tales of daring.

\----

“Having fun, Sparkler?” Varric caught Dorian in passing, as he moved toward the vestibule that housed Cullen, where another crowd of nosy and insufferable patricians had gathered around to proposition the squirming Commander.

“You have no idea.” Dorian smiled. “All this making good material for your next book?”

“You have no idea,” Replied Varric in kind, “apparently, three affairs with apostate mages have been exposed in the families most supportive of the reestablishment of the Circles, and two Chevaliers have been outed as complete frauds.” He chuckled, “but you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

Dorian kept smiling, “four affairs with apostate mages, Varric, and one of them a rumoured blood mage!” He said, in a conspicuous whisper just loud enough that a nearby Duke would hear him, and continued his casual stride up to the vestibule.

\----

Cullen was stiff and red and stuttering, so Dorian dispensed with his suitors quickly, needing no help to disperse the crowd. It was a simple task: Lady Lorimier fancied the Duke of Lydes, so he insinuated that he had been asking about her, the Comtesse was having an affair with the Duchess de Savrene, so he let slip that she was seen dancing closely with a Marquis, and the Baron, well, he had only to give the man’s shoes a disappointed look to make him aware that he was being found lacking, and send him shuffling away.

Cullen let out a breath as the crowd cleared. “Thanks.” He muttered.

“Oh don’t thank me yet, I’ve only come to replace their ungainly attempts at flirting with my own, superior lines.” He winked.

Cullen crossed his arms, face still red. “Oh shut up.” He grumbled.

Dorian chuckled. “Fine, fine, have it your way Commander. Anything I should know?” It hadn’t escaped him that the Inquisitor had gone suspiciously missing from both the gardens and the ballroom for the past five minutes, and Vivienne was out on the floor dancing alongside Leliana - trading in secrets, no doubt.

“I can hardly follow all the plots myself,” Cullen admitted, “but he’s getting to the bottom of it. If you can, tell some of the others to watch the doors in the Hall of Heroes, and just… keep doing this thing you’re doing.” He instructed.

Dorian raised an eyebrow. “Which thing?”

“Keeping all these guests distracted for him.” Said Cullen with a nod.

Dorian smiled. “My pleasure.”

\----

Leila and Krem were quick to volunteer for the job of guard duty, while Varric handled those inside the parlour room with his stories. Vivienne and Dorian each put on their respective shows in the ballroom with aplomb, while the Iron Bull continued to impress onlookers in the guest gardens. Solas was also mingling quietly, surprisingly apt at the social graces of the Court, and relaying newfound gossip to Leliana periodically.

The Inquisitor had Blackwall, Sera, and Cole with him, investigating in rooms they shouldn’t be. Sera had contacts - “Jennies” - that would leave supplies for them, Blackwall because he needed a warrior who wouldn’t be missed - both Cassandra and Bull were far too conspicuous - and Cole had yet to be noticed at all.

Leila was simply glad to be away from the commotion of other people, standing watch with Krem over the doors to the servants quarters and guest wing. Time passed quietly, the murmur of conversation and delicate string music a distant sound that drifted in from the ballroom, and Krem leaned against the wall, arms crossed. Soon Leila took the same pose, leaning with more ease than she’d felt all night on the wall to the other side of the guest wing door.

“Hey,” began Krem, interrupting the quiet after a few uneventful minutes had passed. “Wanna dance?”

Leila raised an eyebrow. “What, here?”

Krem shrugged, pushing off the wall where he leaned. “Seems a waste to come to this shindig and not get at least one dance in.” He smiled, holding out a hand, “Lady Sparrow.” He waved his arm about and lowered in an exaggerated bow.

Leila let out a short laugh. “Fair point, I guess.”

They danced, clumsily and with many interruptions for laughter and cursing as they stepped on one another’s toes. Neither of them knew the steps, and they could only barely hear the music. It was dumb, but it was also fun; nice. Krem took one of her hands in his and did his best to lead, and she did her best to follow, while all throughout trying not to make obvious the nerves that flooded through her at just this simple, friendly, impulsive bit of touch. Shit. How long had it been since someone had held her hand?

Every day in this Inquisition, things were starting to feel a little more real. Real comradery, and laughter - all the time with the laughter. Sure, fighting demons and Venatori could be dangerous work, but none of it really felt like survival. Fighting as a profession, not a way of life - what a strange new luxury.

Join the Chargers? Think about an after?

Real laughter. Real safety… real friends. Any minute now, it would all have to break apart.

Leila was laughing, and so was Krem. It felt easy, and still so strange.

Then, the door to the servant’s wing opened, and he walked through.

Hair the colour of Orlesian beaches, eyes bluer than the sea, and a smile so cruel it could kill; and it had. He froze, and so did Leila. In an instant she couldn’t think fast enough to stop, she vanished, throwing up her trusty spell in the time it took for her heart to skip a beat. _Not you._

The next moment might have been taken over by an instinct to run, or it might have led her to a sudden uncontrollable attack, but Krem still had her hand, and when she disappeared, instead of letting go in shock, his grip tightened.

The intruder didn’t have anyone to hold him back, however, and he chose running and attacking, all in one. A bottle hit the floor with a crash, and the room filled with black smoke. The sandy-haired man turned back into the servant’s corridor and his footsteps rang out as he ran.

“Fuck.” Said Leila, through coughs. She reappeared as the smoke cleared and pulled her hand free. Her face had paled and her eyes were narrow. “Shit, fuck!”

She started after him, taking two steps toward the door he had disappeared behind before Krem stopped her again - a hand on her arm this time, strong, but not forceful.

“Hey!” He said, commanding, getting in front of her. “What are you doing? Who was that?”

“Someone I need to fucking stop.” Was all she said, tearing away from the grip again. “Move, Krem!”

Krem frowned as she pushed past him. “Not alone.” He responded, following her into the hall.

They wound through the narrow servant halls past several empty rooms and storerooms, and out into an empty courtyard, off limits due to the construction being done. A tower of scaffolding which must have been attached to the wall had been kicked down, and bits of its metal and wood were scattered on the ground. Beyond that wall of the courtyard lay more gardens, a maze of shrubbery and flower beds and fountains, and beyond that was the road out; the back way into the palace for deliveries and less-than-noble guests.

“He’s gone, by now.” Said Krem, “and we need to get back.”

“Fuck.” Said Leila again, aggressively.

“You want to tell me who that was?” Krem asked again, crossing his arms now.

Leila made no answer as she looked up angrily at the courtyard wall.

“We have to go.” Krem repeated, the bell inside was ringing, a distant chime.

But instead of answering, or turning back, Leila disappeared again.

Krem reached out clumsily to where she had been, finding only air. He called her name out twice to no response.

“Shit,” he finally sighed, turning to return to his post, “fuck.”

\----

Everything happened too fast, after the Inquisitor came back. He appeared again, his clothes slightly wrinkled, and clearly working to conceal a limp in his step, and made a grand entrance into the ballroom. He accused the Duchess, Florianne, of working in tandem with the Venatori, trying to kill him in the garden. She was taken away by soldiers while the crowd watched in shock, and then there was a conference of the remaining powers, and speeches. It wasn’t until this commotion had died down, turning the party into a celebration of peace, that Krem was able to get the ear of Joesphine. He told her about the man in the Hall of Heroes, and Leila’s disappearance. She frowned, and quickly found Leliana, to whom Krem relayed the information again.

Leliana looked thoughtful. “She might not know the Game, but she knows bards. I suspect if she has gone after one, we won’t find her until she’s finished with him.” She said, calmly. Krem grimaced, the spymaster clearly knew more than she was telling, but what could he do? The woman could make herself invisible, after all. Forbidden from taking any more action that would disrupt the newly made peace, he found Bull and did his best to listen as Sera excitedly told them of the assassination attempt that the Inquisitor had thwarted.

\----

Leila found a way through the maze of the gardens and out to the stables which lay behind the palace some ways down that service road. She had clambered over the wall with adrenaline-bought determination, run through the gardens with speed and force that her legs would surely complain about later, and stopped short, panting and angry, as she caught up with him. Laurent was getting on a horse, a lumpy and heavy looking sack on his back.

She shot a bolt of ice at the horse’s feet, and it stumbled and whinnied in distress. Laurent looked back at her with shock. He drew a small blade, she drew both of hers, and disappeared again, appearing again with a heave at his coat that sent him tumbling off the horse to her feet. She brought the daggers to his neck.

He smiled, teeth straight and white, eyes blue and pleading, and raised both his hands in a gesture of surrender.

“Give me one reason.” She barked, cutting into his neck a little with one of her blades.

“You have no idea how good it is to see you, love. I thought you were long dead!” He croned, soft and melodic and desperate.

“You fucking bastard, don’t pretend you didn’t know! How much did you fucking _get for me_?”

“Get? If you want money, darling, it’s yours.” He nodded toward the bag he had carried, now spilling out silver candlesticks and coins on the ground beside him.

“Oh you’ll pay, alright.” She said, pressing a little harder with her blade, drawing just enough blood to make the bard wince and break his smile.

“Wait, wait. Leila. Listen to me, please.” There were tears in his pretty blue eyes. Good.

“Never again.” She growled, ready to finish it.

“Don’t you want to know where Ness is?” His smile was back.

Leila stopped. Nessa went back to Kirkwall. Nessa was _dead_. Wasn’t she? She pulled the blade back, just slightly.

“Talk. Now. No tricks.”

He squirmed under her, positioning his head so that he was looking into her eyes, and her blades were further from his neck. She had left a long thin cut from under his ear to his jaw.

“She’s alive, doll. She’s fine. Working for some hightown sap, last I heard.” He began slowly, his speech reassuring and calm. Leila couldn’t catch her breath.

The bard took the opportunity of her shock in one quick, strong push. One of her blades spun from her hand as he twisted acrobatically out from under her and shoved her, hard in the gut. She threw another bolt of ice, and it caught him in the leg, but then there was another crash of breaking glass, and more black smoke filled her lungs. The horse neighed loud above her, and she had to roll to avoid hooves as the bard took hold of the saddle and pulled himself up. She stabbed through the smoke and hit something, but the hoofbeats took off into the night, and when the smoke had cleared the bard had left only a sack of stolen goods, and a trail of blood.

She sat there on the ground, numb in everything but her ears, which were ringing. Nessa. Alive. She felt hot tears welling in her eyes, and her fists were clenching, cold. She screamed, an angry frustrated growl that came from somewhere she couldn’t control, and punched a small crater of ice into the ground beside her. A few moments later, she was invisible again, dragging herself back toward the palace in a daze, tears streaming down her face.

\----

It was Cole, who found her. The party was winding down, and Leila’s absence had become a concern. The Inquisitor was still busy fending off admirers, but the others had been set to search as discreetly as they could.

She had made it back to the garden, but the light and music radiating out to her from the elegant palace was too bright, too lively. She sank into a stone bench by one of the fountains, some obtuse marble statue of a lion spitting out an endless stream of water, and rummaged through the bag of treasures her foe had dropped. Why was he here? There was nothing telling in the bag, just stolen riches. Nessa, alive. He had to be lying. He was always lying.

But what if he wasn’t?

“Everyone is worried about you.” Said Cole. She jumped. “The Charger, especially.”

Shit. The Nightingale was going to have so many questions.

Cole sat down beside her, looking at the fountain. “It spits out what others die for. Water flowing endlessly here while parts of the city burn.” He sounded sad. “So ugly.”

He was probably just saying what she thought, which was why she agreed. “Yeah.” She said anyway. “All of Orlais is like that.”

“He’s like that too, but he wasn’t lying.”

Leila looked at him, less unnerved by his knowing about things he shouldn’t than by the revelation itself.

“How can you possibly be sure?” The question was desperately hopeful, and that hope hurt.

Cole looked thoughtful. “You’re sure.” He said, an unhelpful nonanswer, “why doesn’t it help?”

Leila frowned. It didn’t help. It really, really didn’t. She was far too tired to begin processing what that meant. She had just been laughing, really laughing, an hour ago. Now? Now she wasn’t sure whether to dutifully go back to work, or to run away.

“We can find her.” Said Cole. Something about the way he said that hurt even more. “She made songs out of sorrows, sweet singing to save a sister. She had to go back for her, should have gone with her, should have chosen sisters over sweet talking liars.” For once, she didn’t even try to kick him out of her memories. “You still can, the Inquisition can help.”

Leila sighed. “Can’t go back now.” She muttered. “Still need to stop the Venatori.” Back to work, one debt at a time.

“After, then.” Said Cole.

Leila turned a coin over between her fingers. The ghost kid got up from the bench, gesturing for her to follow him back toward the palace. Maybe after, his words echoed in her thoughts. There she went again, thinking about an after.

\----

Finally, there was calm. The Empress was gratefully upgrading their accommodations for the night, and the Inquisition had reassembled, ragged though some of them were. The events of the night now resolved, only one thing remained on Dorian’s mind. Taren. He wanted to find him, to talk breathlessly about all that had gone on; to congratulate him on his victories, compliment him on his perfect execution at the Game, share some of the sillier gossip he had heard that he knew would make him laugh. The only issue was that he wasn’t sure just how welcome his company would be. Taren’s disappointed eyes and bitter accusations from their last conversation returned now to the forefront of his mind. He had been keeping his distance from Dorian all night, even when wild cultists weren’t trying to kill him. Perhaps it wasn’t purposeful, but, perhaps it was.

Dorian found Taren alone on the terrace, looking up at the stars from the railing. A familiar pose, one that tugged at him in a way that was deep and painful.

“You’re still upset with me, aren’t you?” He asked gently as he approached. Taren didn’t turn.

“No.” He said, as Dorian came up beside him. “Well, a little. It’s been a strange night.” He said, eyes still on the stars.

“That it has.” Said Dorian, admiring Taren’s features in the moonlight. Taren was silent for a long moment. Dorian turned his attention to the sky as well, placing a hand lightly on the railing, close to Taren’s, but without touching.

“I’m not cut out for this… this world.” He said, and Dorian looked at him again. Taren was looking out over the palace's front courtyard now. Below, colourful shapes of people in ornate and spectacular outfits were entering their carriages and riding away from the night’s festivities and atrocities with new gossip on their lips. “Fighting, I can do” He turned, looking at Dorian, “but talking…”

Dorian chuckled with disbelief. “Don’t sell yourself short. You managed to settle a peace between the Duke, Brialla, and the Empress in a single night. Few others could have achieved that.”

Taren let out a small breath. Dorian took his hand, now.

“I do apologize for having upset you.” He said, sincerely. “You do matter to me. I want that to be clear. And everything with Bull…”

“Stop.” Taren cut him off, shaking his head. “I don’t really give a shit about you and Bull.” He sighed.

“Are you certain about that?”

Taren let out a hesitant laugh. “I am.” He said. “It isn’t really about that at all.”

Dorian looked at him imploringly.

“I'm not the Herald of Andraste, whatever people think.” He began, frustration in his voice. It must have been a strange night for him indeed. He had shunned the title at every turn, and of course he had, but it didn’t seem to matter much to the rest of the world. And it also didn’t matter to Dorian; whether he was or not, he was still a walking miracle.

“I’m not anyone, from anywhere.” Taren continued, “I’m just some elf with a glowing hand. I may as well be Sera.”

Dorian sputtered a laugh. “Can you imagine, Sera in charge?”

“Who, some Mad Elf?”

Of course he had heard it. He was the Inquisitor, after all. Dorian frowned.

“A dangerous nobody with uncouth ideas?” Taren went on, “how is that any different from how these people see me?” He gestured widely.

“Then they are mistaken.” Said Dorian, seriously. “And after tonight, anyone who still thinks you unworthy simply isn’t paying attention.”

Taren sighed. “My point is, you might not be from this world, but you understand it. You can talk to Madeline Hawke without becoming a nervous wreck. And you understand this… all this bullshit. I would never even be in a place like this if it weren’t for…” He gestured with his marked hand.

Dorian looked at the Inquisitor in surprise. Even ruffled, he was still striking in his black and silver robes, his hair slicked back and elegantly in place, not one gem missing from the band woven into it. His posture was as effortless as it always was, and he had spent the night floating through crowds when he walked, dancing without a single misstep. He looked different, it was true, out of his usual browns and greens, but not out of place. He was _the Inquisitor,_ that figure so honourable Dorian felt like he tarnished him just by standing there.

“I never considered that you could see it that way.” Dorian said, honestly. “Of course I can talk to the likes of Madeline Hawke with ease when I’ve already had the distinct pleasure of going to bed with you.” Dorian was, in fact, fairly certain that nothing would ever make him blush again. “You are the most important person in any room, and you work harder than anyone I have ever met.”

“I have to, don’t I?” Taren responded. He still sounded almost ashamed; uncertain. “It all rests on me.” He sighed. “I know I shouldn’t complain.”

Dorian’s frown deepened. “Taren,” he stepped closer to him, looking into his face. It was true he saw him as the Inquisitor still, how could he not? But right now - his face illuminated in the moonlight, a slight frown on his lips and uncertainty in his eyes - he _was_ just Taren. And his heart ached so much more for that man than it had any right to.“I stand by you, always.” He said. “If you’ll have me, of course. You must know that it is not all on you.”

Taren looked away, guilt spreading over his features. “Yet you won’t be seen with me.” He said.

Dorian’s stomach fell. “I… it isn’t like that.” He said, quietly.

“If something is in your heart, you have to fight for it.” Taren quoted, and Dorian winced. “Isn’t that one of your principles? So why don’t you act on it?”

“I suppose I hadn’t considered that you really would want me to.” He said.

“Well, why the hell not?” Taren snapped, but it was quiet. “I’ve been clear.” He noted.

He had been, abundantly. And Dorian had run from every single instance. “I don’t know.” He admitted quietly.“Fear, I suppose.”

“Of me?” Taren sounded disbelieving.

“Of what happens next.” Dorian sighed, “no one has ever asked me to be… out in the open, before. And I rather enjoy your company, I’m not quite ready to have that all scrutinized and ruined. Or for you to realise that I am simply not worth the trouble.”

Taren shook his head. “I’m not asking for some lifelong commitment, Dorian. Just...” Taren hesitated, “just a chance. Can’t one thing in my life be normal? I like you.” Maker, he needed to stop telling him that, it was bound to go to his head. It already had gone to his heart, after all, which was now beating far too fast. “Why does it have to be more complicated than that?”

“I’ve wondered that my whole life.” Dorian responded, with a sad smile. “I’ve wished for none of it to matter. But it does, Taren. Call me a coward if you want, I suppose I am one.” He said, but even as he said it he wondered. How much did it matter, really? Surely not more than what was happening now, as this deep and frankly confusing sensation of heartache and jitters and ferocity spread through his body - take him, kiss him, don’t let go of him, _what are you doing, you fool?_

How could anything matter more than that?

“Well I’m not.” Said Taren, firmly.

“No, you really put the rest of us to shame. And you’re right to, you know.” Dorian extended a hand. He could have this, right now, at least. “Might I still have a dance?”


	15. Everything With Bull

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place between chapters 4 and 6. I wasn't originally going to write these scenes, and they don't have a lot of bearing on the plot, but they fill in some gaps (that's not the only thing getting filled ah ah - hey wait come back where are you going? I'll stop I promise!)
> 
> Consider this like an "appa's lost days" episode, but, you know, with sex.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: drinking, sex, light bondage (honestly I can't write hardcore smut worth a damn so it's all tame as hell)

Dorian finished his drink and rose from the table with a slight sway, and a wobble in his step. He paid his tab and walked, drifting a little from one side of the hall to the other as he did, toward the Iron Bull’s room. He wasn’t really thinking about anything, and he certainly didn’t have a plan. He only knew that Bull had mentioned an open door with suggestive nods and glances, and that he could go for some easy attention. Something to take his mind off things. Bull did have that nice, hard, broad chest…

He arrived outside the door, and it was, as promised, slightly ajar. He knocked twice. 

Bull answered the door with surprise in his face, perhaps he was expecting someone else. Dorian attempted to stand a little straighter. 

“Need something, pretty boy?” 

“I think you know.” Dorian said, dropping into the low growl of flirtation with ease. 

Bull opened the door the rest of the way, stepping aside to let him in. There was a low table near the door, and a couple chairs to match it. The bed looked heavy, and was adorned with only plain sheets and a couple of pillows. Bull’s armour stood on a stand at the foot of it, and next to that was a large wooden chest sealed with iron bindings. There was also a dresser, which looked unused, and above that a small mirror that would be too high for anyone but the seven foot tall Qunari. 

Bull offered him a seat at the little table, and pulled one up for himself. 

“You drunk?” He asked, looking Dorian up and down. 

Dorian shrugged. “Usually.” He said. 

Bull leaned back in the chair, it looked like it was ready to give way beneath him at any moment. The muscles in his arms bulged slightly as he lifted them over his head in a casual lean. Dorian licked his lips. 

“I seem to remember an offer of uniquely good times,” Dorian began, getting right to it. “Pleasure like you’ve never known, was it?”

“Might have been.” Said Bull, still looking him over. “Sure that’s what you want?” 

Dorian groaned. What he wanted was a complicated question. Right now, what he wanted was sex. Preferably rough and without too much talking, and good enough to fill his mind up so that it would be free of, well,  _ everything else _ . “Would I be here if I wasn’t?” He replied. 

“Thought you had your eyes on a different prize, that’s all.” Bull continued, gently. 

Part of Dorian’s mind reacted with swift defensive anger - the Inquisitor wasn’t some prize - but the other part just groaned inwardly. This whole affair was becoming much too analytical. “Was there an offer or wasn’t there?” He asked, pushing the conversation away. 

“There was. But you might not be sober enough for it.” Bull replied evenly. 

“I’m fine.” Dorian shook his head, what exactly was his problem, anyway? “All in working order, I assure you.” Bull’s muscles tensed when he shifted in his seat, and Dorian’s already tight trousers felt that much tighter - yes, he certainly was. 

“Not what I meant.” Bull said, but his smile was eager. “Alright, pretty boy, you really want to have some fun then?” 

Yes, please. Fun, that was what he needed. Dorian leaned back in his chair, too, looking at Bull through hooded eyes, jaw jutting forward. He knew it was a good angle for him. “That is exactly what I want.” 

Bull lowered his arms and placed one strong hand gently on Dorian’s right forearm. “First things first, then,” he said, “if you’re going to be drunk, so am I. Personal rule.” He explained, and stood up. 

He went over to the large chest by the bed and rummaged in it for a while, eventually pulling out an unmarked bottle. He pulled the cork from the bottle with his teeth, and took a long sip, his head thrown back and his stance broad, showing off that strong, shirtless chest some more. 

He returned to the table with the bottle in hand, taking another sip and grinning. When he put the bottle down, Dorian reached for it tentatively. 

“May I?” Ever polite. 

Bull placed a hand on the bottle. “This stuff ‘aint suitable for the likes of mortal men like you. Better not, if you want to get anywhere tonight.” He cautioned. 

Dorian scoffed, but retracted his hand. “Mortal men? You aren’t immortal, Bull.” He chided. 

“You don’t know that,” Bull took another swig, “ever seen me die?” 

Bull outlined some rules while he worked on his drink, explained how he liked to take charge, what to do and say if it became too much, and he gave Dorian one more opportunity to change his mind. He was sobering, now, but talk of it was only increasing Dorian’s desire. He confirmed that he was still game, more so now, in fact. Bull took one last swig before standing again. Dorian stood too, this time. 

“Start undressing, pretty boy.” Bull commanded as he turned his back to Dorian and returned to the chest. Dorian obliged, loving how his mind was already beginning to clear. 

Bull brought some ties forth from the chest now, long and silky strips of fabric. 

Dorian was shirtless when Bull turned around, but he hadn’t gotten further than that. There were layers and clasps to undo, after all. Bull grabbed him suddenly, pulling him close from the waist with one strong arm, and forcing down his trousers with the other. Now they were getting somewhere. 

Bull tied him up, wrapping the silk ties several times around his wrists while bringing his lips just out of reach of Dorian’s. He pushed on his chest, sent him falling onto the bed, and began to undress in front of him. Bull didn’t have layers, only the one simple pair of trousers, and they fell in seconds. 

He brought his body over Dorian’s, putting pressure on him that was heavy and solid, but not painful, and allowed Dorian to rise enough now that his lips could touch his stomach, firm under all that muscle. Bull was hard, but he could be harder. He pulled Dorian closer, pushed him down, let him play and suck at his cock while he leaned back, his eye closed and his hands on Dorian’s shoulder and the back of his head. 

He moved his hand to grab Dorian’s erection while he sucked, tugging firmly, working him up to a breathless sweat, forcing small moans to escape his lips. He had brought out the proper lotions, too, and applied them liberally, along with the non-magical version of protection, which was generally less graceful, but Bull somehow made it so. 

It wasn’t long before Bull was behind him, pressing into the small of his back, teasing at his ass while Dorian wriggled delightedly against the restraints. 

He fucked him hard, just as promised, bringing Dorian to climax, and then allowing Dorian to do the same for him through more skillful tricks of his mouth. The orgasms were short, tempered by Bull’s retreating - teasing - so that they fucked again, some moments later, and each felt the release a second time. 

It was exactly the distraction Dorian had been looking for. By the time Bull untied him he was panting, sweaty, and blissfully numb from the waist down. When he stood, he wobbled again, though this time not from the drink. 

Dorian dressed and said something quick and grateful, making to leave. 

“Wow, just like that, is it? And I thought you high class types were supposed to have manners.” Bull was still naked as he sat on the edge of the bed. 

“Excuse me?” 

Bull sighed. “You ok, big guy?” 

“Better than.” Dorian smiled, it was a little forced. The sex was fun, but he didn’t exactly want to dwell on it. 

“Good. See me again any time, then. I like the way you play.” He stood and picked up the bottle from the table, it was still about half full. He took a swig, pulled out both chairs from the table, sat in one, and gestured with the bottle to the other. 

“After-sex drink?” He offered. 

Dorian shrugged, taking the offered chair and the bottle. “I thought it wasn’t for mortals.” He said, looking curiously at the amber liquid. 

“Nah, it’s just whiskey.” Bull replied. “You just needed to sober up a little.” 

Dorian wasn’t sure whether or not to be offended. Usually, his drunk decisions and his sober decisions were more or less the same. It really was one of his skills, to be functionally drunk. But, he supposed the extra precaution was suitably safe. Caring, even. Oh, but he really hadn’t come here to think about gestures that were  _ caring _ . He took a drink. It was not very  _ good _ whiskey, but it was indeed only whiskey. 

“Well, thanks.” He said. Usually, it was flowery pillow talk or it was nothing, frank post-coital discussions were out of his wheelhouse. 

“You gonna tell me why you decided tonight was the night to ride the Bull?” Bull asked as Dorian swallowed a mouthful of the stuff with a shudder. 

“Oh, Maker, if I knew you were going to call it that I’d never have done it.” Dorian replied. 

Bull chuckled, “don’t get me wrong, I’m glad you did.” 

Dorian shook his head. “Just needed something to clear my head, I suppose. And if it’s between a brisk walk in the mountain air and sex, I’m choosing sex, every time.” It didn’t have to be a frank discussion if he didn’t want it to be. 

“Sure,” Bull replied, “a distraction, huh? I can be that.” 

“Sure you won’t go falling in love with me, Qunari?” Dorian responded with jesting flirtation. Not doing in depth analysis of his motivations right now, no sir. 

“Oh no,” Said Bull with a curl of his lips, “you’ve got plenty enough of that on your plate already.” 

This conversation wasn’t much fun. Perhaps they could simply have sex again. Dorian took another drink. 

“Just let me know when you’re done running from your feelings, pretty boy, and we’ll stop. ‘Til then, my door’s open.” 

\----

Dorian returned the following night, finding the door unlocked and Bull waiting. Bull took him in his rough, exciting way again and both reached satisfaction, more than once. 

When they had finished, muscles tired and energy spent, Bull rolled over to lie leaning propped up on one elbow as Dorian sat reassembling his layers of shirts on the edge of his bed, and prompted another blunt conversation. 

“So,” he began teasingly, “best you ever had? You can say it.” 

Dorian chuckled, the sex  _ was _ more than enjoyable, but he might not go that far. “I don’t know, pity you can’t do magic,” he said, “no offence.”

Bull chuckled too, taking none. “You ‘Vints really bring that crap into the bedroom? And people say I’m freaky.” He sat up, “ok, tell me how you ‘Vints make it better. Bet you lose something in the skill when you depend on magic, though.” 

“Some do,” Dorian admitted, “you’re really asking about my  _ other  _ sexual exploits, right now?” He might be a good fuck, but Bull really did have the strangest ideas of what constituted pillow talk. 

“Why not? I live for a good salacious tale, keeps me going. Maybe it’ll give me something to think about later.” He might have winked, if he had more than one eye. 

“You are a very strange man, you know that?”

“Why, because I’m not a jealous prude?” Countered Bull, “Are  _ you _ a jealous prude?” 

Dorian paused, he had a point. “No, I suppose not. I just usually don’t go about boasting to my partners about other people. If you really want to know about magic in bed, you could just let me try it on you.” He said the last part teasingly, knowing Bull would likely shudder at the thought, and not in the good way. He really was missing out, though. 

Bull shook his head, dropping the subject. He got up to move to the table, there was still some whiskey in his bottle there. Dorian joined him, still half-dressed. 

“I hope you were suitably distracted from what’s bothering you, at least.” Bull said as he passed Dorian the bottle. 

“Quite suitably.” Dorian replied after a hard sip. He gave his head a shake and grimaced at the taste as he passed the bottle back. 

“Sex and drinking instead of feelings,” Bull commented, “no wonder you’re so tense.” 

“That’s rich, coming from you.” Dorian countered, a little offended. “You have sex with me without a care, too.” 

“I care plenty, pal.” Bull replied, patting Dorian’s hand in a gesture that was, indeed, very caring. “I care that you have a good time,” he pointed out, “that you’re making sound decisions.” He took a swig of the whiskey and let out a satisfied sigh as he swallowed. No taste. “Plus, I could absolutely  _ destroy  _ you, pretty boy, but only if you want it.” He said teasingly. 

“Right, very caring.” Dorian replied with a roll of his eyes. 

“I  _ don’t  _ care that you’re desperately in love with the Inquisitor, and using sex to bury your feelings.” He continued, tone still teasing, “you’re a grown man, that’s your call to make.” 

“I am not desperately in love with anyone, thank you.” Dorian said defensively, cheeks reddening. 

Bull sighed again. “Honestly, I don’t care.” He reassured. 

“Then why bring it up?” This was getting annoying. He took another drink. 

Bull shrugged. “I like a little honesty with my sex, that’s all.” 

Dorian chuckled. “Honesty?” He echoed. 

Bull leaned back. “Yep, honest sex is better sex. Doesn’t have to mean anything, but if you want something, you’ve gotta own that desire. Nothing good comes from going against your nature, shaming yourself, feeling guilty about fucking the way you like to fuck. It’s called being at peace with who you are.” He explained with confidence. 

Dorian frowned, feeling targeted. “That’s…” Unfair. “Remarkably healthy, actually.” He admitted. 

Bull smiled with the look of someone being told something he already knew. “Next time maybe bring him along,” he went on to suggest with another sly look, “that’d be one way to get the ball rolling.” 

“I don’t  _ want _ to get the ball rolling, Bull.” Dorian insisted. 

“Don’t try to lie to me, Dorian, liar is literally my name.” The Qunari named liar who preferred honest sex. Dorian groaned. 

“The thing about that is, eventually, it stops rolling.” He wasn’t sure if it was Bull’s advice or the alcohol, but something was making him honest.

“So that’s it, huh?” Bull sounded like he’d had a revelation, “and what if it didn’t?”

Dorian sighed. “We’re talking about the Inquisitor.” He reminded Bull, and himself. “It would have to, sooner or later. If not for any other reason beside one of us winding up dead.” Stabbed in the back by a Tevinter assassin, most likely. Or maybe a disapproving Chantry sister. An angry Dalish elf? Not out of the question, either. 

“So it’s safe to sleep with the Qunari, but not the elf? You ‘Vints sure are twisted.” 

Dorian’s brow furrowed at the accusation, he didn’t care about  _ those _ politics. He didn’t really care about the politics of it at all. He cared about… ah, shit. Bull was starting to see right through him. 

“Oh for Andraste’s sake. It’s not  _ what _ he is,” Dorian explained, protesting against Bull’s pointed comments, “it’s  _ who _ .” He sighed, he didn’t want to talk about this, but here he was doing it anyway. “You and I, we’re the same,” he began. 

“We most certainly are not.” Bull interrupted. 

Dorian continued with a wave of his hand, “we both just… work here. But Taren,” no, not Taren, too familiar. “The Inquisitor, he - he  _ is _ here. And he can’t afford distractions.” He finished. 

“So you’re shutting down your feelings for his sake?” Asked Bull. 

“Yes!” Shit. “No! I mean…” he made a frustrated growling sound, this was a bad idea. “Weren’t we just having sex five minutes ago? Why are we talking about  _ this _ now?” 

“I told you, I’m not the jealous type.” Bull reminded him. “I just don’t understand why you’re so wound up over it.” 

“You wouldn’t,” Dorian grumbled, “you just sleep with whomever you please, without thought of the consequences.”

“Yeah.” Agreed Bull with enthusiasm, “you should try it sometime.” 


	16. Reflections

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short chapter following Leila's point of view after the eventful night at the Winter Palace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Death mentions, mentions of suicidal ideation, allusions to some more of Leila's trauma. 
> 
> I want to make a note here and say that if for any reason you're struggling, reach out. I'm writing a character here who has been through some pretty dark stuff, and while this story isn't really about that and I'm never going to actually detail any of it graphically or make it my primary focus, I do try to write her coming to terms and struggling with some of what she's been through realistically. A lot of the way I write thoughts and insecurities come from places that are real, and I understand that's not for everyone. Personally, I find a lot of value in writing this character and working on her story (obviously I find her pretty compelling or I wouldn't be writing this) but angst isn't for everyone. I try to temper all my angsty writing with a good bit of fluff and by pointing my characters squarely in the direction of finding hope and healing, but sorry in advance for the fact that some of this is kind of heavy. There's good drama to be had in a darker story to be sure, but the end goal of all of this is to get to somewhere much lighter, and I hope that comes across.

Hawke and Alistair were in the Approach already, along with Bull’s chargers and some Inquisition scouts, mapping out the rifts and dangers of the area, and setting up camps. Those of the Inquisition who had first gone to the ball at the Winter Palace, however, were to embark for the area the next morning, and for the night they were offered board in the lavish rooms of the guest wing before the journey. 

While the accommodations were certainly luxurious, for many they went unappreciated. The festivities ran late, and for Taren, Blackwall, Sera, and probably Cole, there had been more than enough fighting and excitement that day to lead them straight to darkened rooms and sound sleep. Vivienne and Dorian took the time to appreciate their bathing facilities, at least, but the night was one of solitary relaxation for almost everyone. 

Everyone, except Leila. 

She paced the lavish space she had been assigned with a restless energy, even as her legs began to feel the ache of the night’s earlier chase. She had barely undressed, losing only some layers of the silky outfit she’d worn for the purposes of looking presentable. It did not look presentable any longer. She had thrown the overcoat and shiny black boots off, feeling stifled in the layers, and now they lay in a heap near the door to the room, the expensive fabric rendered worthless. The coat was torn, and stained with blood and dirt, a trauma which such delicate fabric would never recover from. The boots, likewise, were now marred with scuffs and bits of gravel that had wedged their way into the soles. They had not been made for running, climbing, or fighting with the unwelcome intrusions of a difficult past. 

She had passed off the sack of stolen goods to Leliana, in lieu of answering any questions. She wasn’t sure why the spymaster had allowed her to retire after only a brief explanation and the forfeit of recovered treasures. She wasn’t sure why she was still allowed to be there at all, spending the night in the palace and continuing on with the Inquisitor’s party the next morning. She should have been brought back to Skyhold, along with the Inquisitor’s advisors and the captured duchess. She had abandoned her post to chase a thief, and not even caught him. Greater things had been afoot than the usual ruckus of bards and thieves working under direction of greedy nobles; Ventori cultists, assassination attempts. And she had gone running after Laurent, _fucking Laurent_ , who was no doubt only there for easy money and an excuse to stir some minor political pots. 

But for some reason, she was pacing in an outrageously decorated room, throwing cautious glances out the window with each pass, unable to sit still. This was insurrection at worst, incompetence at best. It wasn’t like the Inquisition didn’t have other rogues. 

She hadn’t even killed him. 

Leila’s fists were clenched so tightly that her knuckles were white, and she could feel the tips of short nails biting into her palms. Why hadn’t she just killed him? 

She glanced out the window again, though the view was nothing but black. Her own reflection looked back at her from the glass, disheveled, and she returned to pacing. Her own reflection wasn’t something she looked at much, and she wasn’t about to pick this time to dwell on it. She did catch that the top three buttons on her silk shirt were missing; she hadn’t even noticed. Another piece of the ensemble ruined. A fleeting realisation crossed her mind that she had probably just destroyed more cost in clothing than she had ever before owned. Then, with bitterness, she promptly decided not to care. 

There were too many things swimming in her mind, and they all stacked upon one another into an indecipherable blockage of anger. Laurent. She had shut him so clearly out of her mind, she realised. She had harboured her grudge, tended it well, but that face; the eyes, the smile, the elegant wispy hair, she had forgotten it. Even when he haunted her dreams, it was nothing like the real thing. Now he was real again, not some abstract ghost to hate in her nightmares and try to forget in her waking. And Nessa. Oh Maker, she had done much worse than that to Nessa. 

She could have just killed him! Why the hell hadn’t she killed him? 

And then there was the Inquisition. She was still counting days; ninety-eight. Close to four months. Four months of almost believing she had made some kind of turn, found some kind of real and stable and noble thing to do with herself. Four months without running, without taking orders or...or pain. None at all, save the scrapes of fights with demons, fights that were for the good of the world. Scrapes that she had been learning to heal, because someone had been teaching her... it was more, a lot more, than anything she had known in a long time. It was real and good, and she was still getting used to that. Still getting used to something other than just plain survival. 

To survive in this world, Leila had learned, one needed only to be able to do two things: run, and laugh.

Because the thing about pain was that it was easy to run from. Some things made it easier: misbehaviour, intoxicants, violence. You could lose yourself, running from pain into those things, but you would leave the pain behind, too. At least until you stopped. Once stopped, the only option became laughter. 

Because the thing about evil, real evil, was that it never seemed to know what to do with itself, once it found you laughing at it. You could disorient evil with a laugh, make it think it had failed. She had laughed at many evils over the course of her short life: at betrayal and captivity, and even torture, at first. Telling evil that it had failed. Then, when that evil had gone unassuaged, she had taken to laughing at her own futility, her own memories of life and goodness, her lost sense of morality, her lost sense of self. At the idea of dying, at one last spectacular failure. It had become a black and bitter laugh, the kind that tricked enemies into thinking they had failed, even as that enemy became herself. 

But this blighted Inquisition had spent four months coaxing laughter out of her that wasn’t fractured and forced. A rebellious spirit that had come to die defiantly, because it was still just barely alive, was somehow becoming rebellious in its old way. She had forgotten how much she had missed herself, and in four months a little of that spirit had started to come back into her laugh. 

She hadn’t always been alone, hadn’t always been bitter or uncaring. There had been a life, difficult as it had been, where she had known love and laughter that was real, and it had been that life that taught her how to survive evil and pain. The answer to Solas’ stupid question; the thing that had kept some few shreds of herself attached even when every day was filled with those same things. Four months in the heart of the only good place that seemed to be left in the world had begun to allow some of that life back in, and that had been hard enough to handle. 

But Nessa, Nessa was the reason any of that ever existed in the first place. Nessa was the root of what she had kept in herself to cling to when everything was dark and terrible. Nessa was the one who taught her how to laugh at pain, the first time, and the right way. Be adaptable, smart, find good in yourself when you can’t find it anywhere else. They were her lessons first. She had replaced them with angry rebellion, black laughter, and frantic running, but the Inquisition had started to bring some of those lessons back, and she had been - just barely - starting to remember Nessa.

She had never mourned her, never really truly accepted that she was gone. She had assumed, and she had shut so much of that life out because of the pain of that assumption. If it wasn’t true. If it wasn’t true…

That line of thinking made her body shake with anger. Why didn’t it help? Cole wanted to know. Why didn’t it help, to know that there was hope, after all this time. Maybe she had always known, never mourned because she never really believed it. Fuck, but that only made her _angry_. 

She was still pacing when the knock came at her door. 

It was Krem. He had changed, donning a comfortable looking robe and soft trousers that must have come with the accommodations. Leila hadn’t even opened the doors of the large armoire that took up half the wall across from the bed in her own assigned room. As she answered the door she could hear Bull’s booming laugh drift out from across the hall, echoed by the quieter but equally jovial one of Varric. She must have looked surprised, because Krem explained. 

“Varric’s been writing accounts of all the wild stories from tonight, he’s sharing them over cards.” 

The Inquisition and its laughter. 

“Think you might have a story to share too,” he went on, and he was giving her unwashed and tattered form a curious look, “the hell happened to you?”

The curiosity was soft, not accusatory, not disappointed. Tempered by a look of concern. “Are you...ok?” 

“Fine.” She snapped back into the portrayal of herself that she knew the Charger would be used to, the one that swore and drank and made lewd jokes during card games, the one that laughed easily, though whatever honesty had been returning to that persona was gone. “Bastard got away, that’s all.” 

Krem was frowning, soft creases between his thick brows. Another muffled laugh pushed its way into the hall behind him. Leila cast another quick look over her shoulder at the window. Still just black. “Come tell us about it? Your fight.” Krem offered, he was backing away a little, giving her room. He still looked worried. “Just across the hall there,” he pointed over his back with his thumb, “game’s just getting started.” 

_You can join them for the laughter too, it helps more._ Cole had told her that first night, and it had. Sometimes in a way that was overwhelming and hard to handle, but she had found herself laughing again in ways that were real and honest, these past four months. She wasn’t sure she wanted to, right now. Wasn’t sure what to want at all. She looked down at her ruined shirt, up at Krem and his comfortable looking robe. It wasn’t like the Inquisition didn’t have other people who had escaped pain.

She took a long time deciding to change, but eventually, she did open the armoire doors. She threw the rest of her ruined silk garments into the pile by the door and quickly wrapped herself in the lush robe and soft trousers she found hanging inside. They were a dark royal blue, and softer than any bed she had ever slept on. The servants had also left wet cloths and a basin of warm soapy water. It was no longer warm, but she used it to scrub the dirt off her face and the blood out from under her nails. Once clean and dressed, she stood before the open doors of the cabinet. It was made of light wood, inlaid with gold filigree, and each door held a mirror taller than she was that was polished and clear. 

She looked at herself, black hair spilling messily out of the braid she had allowed it to be tugged into before the ball, dark, grayish circles forming under her eyes from too many sleepless nights. Even so, she looked clean, and almost comfortable. She tried on a smile, and it looked as forced as it felt. But there was a glimmer in her eyes that was alive, a bit of spirit struggling to reach the creases of her face. She sighed, closing the doors and looking once more to the window, and grabbed her belt and daggers, slipping it on under the robe before she made her way across the hall. The weight of them felt safe. 

\----

She didn’t explain, didn’t tell the others about who she had run after, why he had gotten away. Mostly, she listened to Varric and she played cards. No one asked her to tell much, Varric didn’t push for anything further than the one-sentence explanation of “bard I used to know, probably stole more than just candlesticks, but he got away.” He only commented that if she ever wanted to share tales of her bardic exploits, his pen would be ready. Then he moved on, he told other stories, and Bull and Krem did, too. She didn’t find herself laughing, her mind still preoccupied with thoughts that were twisting and angry, but those thoughts did become smaller, for a time. 

When the game ended, and Varric announced a need for sleep, he and Bull each rose to return to their own chambers. Leila stood too, painfully tired but her body moving reluctantly in the direction of the door. 

“You can stay, if you want.” Krem offered, watching her walk with one hand on her belt into the hall. “Or we can trade.” She looked back at him, and she must have looked surprised, because he explained.

“My room doesn't have any windows.” He said.


	17. Starlight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Inquisition arrives in the Western Approach, and Taren decides to get his bearings (also, emotionally?)

"Oh this place is incredible, I'm going to take a short look around. Interested?" Taren said brightly, looking eagerly out at the campsite and its sandy surroundings. He headed off, quickly marching downhill from the tents. 

"Inquisitor -" Dorian started after him, Taren didn't stop. "- Taren - where are you going?" Dorian jogged a few quick steps to catch up. 

"Relax, we'll be home in time for supper." He said casually. "I just want to get a feel for the place. Look, the stars are coming out, maybe we'll find one of those _asteriums._ " He was still walking at an eager pace, looking around with excited eyes, a skip in his step. 

Dorian shook his head, now walking along beside him, his feet sinking awkwardly into the sand. "Two nights spent in the city and you start off running as soon as you see an open sky." He observed. "It is as though you need the starlight to live."

"Maybe I do." Taren replied, tossing his head toward the sky. 

Dorian watched him, admiring his long neck and honest smile, and how his soft hair fell back in loose waves. _Powered by starlight._ It would certainly explain a lot. The steady desert sun was fading into a clear twilight, and the glow and hazy smoke of the dinner fire stood out in the distance. Taren kept walking, turning in a wide path that encircled the campsite. 

They came upon a ruin on the other side of the hill, and Taren stopped, leaning against a large decayed column, looking up again at the sky. 

"So much history, out here." Dorian sighed, stooping to more closely examine the column's design. Part of an old Orlesian watchtower, lying there in waste since as long ago as the second blight, maybe longer. He turned to Taren again. Evening had set in, but the desert was aglow in the light of the waxing moon, and Taren was still watching the sky. Dorian moved to lean beside him, looking out as the sky turned from dusty grey to deep blue. 

They stood together, shoulders touching, as Taren named those stars not washed out by the moonlight, finding the constellations he knew to be held as omens and protectors and tracing them for Dorian to find. Some, Dorian had a different name for, and they compared the stories and theorized on their interpretations as the moon rose in the sky. 

It was just conversation, easy and yet intimate. The stars glittered, Taren talked, and Dorian lost track of time. Darkness fell, and Taren finally pushed himself from the place he had leaned. 

"It's getting dark," he said, "let's go, I'm hungry." 

Dorian joined him, stealing just one long kiss under the stars before they could set off. It was the wrong thing, probably, to keep fanning this fantasy of an honest relationship with him _,_ but the moment and the moonlight overtook his senses. He always had been a hopeless romantic. 

\----

There was stew and stock of bread and cheese to be had back at the camp. Dorian and Taren sat close together, near the fire. For a while others stayed up, but there was little revelry. 

They fell back into conversation; dancing around the subject of the next morning’s fight. They discussed attack spells and stances, rune configurations and the readiness of their equipment, all the while leaning closer as the fire grew smaller. 

The camp was quiet. It was a large party, this time - all his inner circle, the chargers, Alistair, the Champion. Small groups had formed for a time during the meal; warriors adjusting their armour together, rogues assembling bombs and traps. But the trip had been long and the night was cold, and now only the two of them were left, watching the thin flames dissipate into red embers. 

He could never sleep, before a mission. Once alone in the quiet Taren would close his eyes, and every small detail of the plan would swim through his mind on a loop. Supply caches needed to be checked, soldiers readied, his own party ordered to action. He would have to say something in the morning, rally his troops - _his troops_ , Creators, this life - inspire them for the coming battle. 

It was easier not to worry about who he was, what was needed from him, and how to reconcile it all with what he wanted, when he had what he wanted right next to him. Dorian still, somehow, smelled like Orlais - perfumed oil; spice and exotic flowers. But the scent wasn’t choking like it had been at Court, sticking in the back of his throat and coating his tongue from how it hung in the air, coming soaked into the clothing of everyone he met, and spread greasily through his own hair. No, this was worn softer, and it was familiar. Dorian smelled warm and clean, the notes of floral extravagance blending into that of campfire smoke and leather. He breathed in deeply. 

Dorian sucked people in, it was what he did. He spoke with a charm that was practiced and smooth, offering complimentary company and passionate commentary. Their conversations in the library had started with time magic; long hours spent in fascination tinted with the urgency and pain of what they each had seen. In time, the reality of what they had been through in Redcliffe faded, becoming more dream-like as whatever magic brought it into being mingled with the fade, but each of them had still felt that horror, and it had left them with a shared, unspoken determination. 

Taren had always loved the study of magic. He loved reading books, making notes and practicing at his spells and potions. His life had held less time for it, divided as his attentions had always been among the tasks of a First, and he’d had less frequent access to collections of books and scrolls, than perhaps Dorian had, but what he had known were different gifts. The lore of his people gave him spells and styles not found in the Circles, he knew stories and myths that led him to new findings in the Inquisition’s research, and he had the skills and knowledge he needed for life on the land, closing the rifts that scarred the world from far and wide. In their nights in the library, they discussed not only new discoveries in magical theory and their potential applications, but also politics, culture, the hope for change. Dorian believed in the same things he did: in fighting for what was right and good, in facing corruption, in trying to do one’s part. His life was different, so different, and yet so much of him was the same. Taren could relate to his frustration, and he admired his confidence.

He hadn’t meant for it to happen, but in the evenings with Dorian conversation flowed easily, and the silences were peaceful. The sight of his face at the end of the day made Taren’s heart beat just a little faster, and sent the corners of his mouth up into smiles he couldn’t control. Dorian’s exaggerated confidence in his appearance wasn’t undeserved, either. He had strong, gorgeous features. His smooth, deep olive skin always shone, radiant against his bold fashions, he had luscious black hair thick enough for Taren to dig his fingers into, and he was strong, athletic in a way that wasn’t obvious, for all those elaborate spins of his staff required it.

Dorian was good at flirting; at bold words and subtle actions. Taren was not. He blushed easily, and always found himself laughing through any line which in his head might sound impressive. He could care, though, and he couldn’t help but want to try at boldness. Still, he didn’t like the way that these feelings had him developing misplaced jealousy, how insecure he could feel inside _Inquisitor_. Taren sighed. Dorian had taken his hand, and he rubbed his thumb over the top of it slowly. 

It was the wrong thing, probably, to want this, to ask for this chance, but the feel and smell of him overtook his senses. He always had been a hopeless romantic. 

“Dorian,” He said, eventually. Dorian turned his face to him, though there was barely any light left from the fire. “I had no right to behave so jealousy, it wasn’t fair to you.” Thoughtful, guilty, wanting to do right. He couldn’t flirt, but he could care. 

“Nonsense, Taren.” Dorian said, too dismissive, but at least it was with his name. “I prefer a little drama.” 

Taren leaned his head onto Dorian’s shoulder. “Regardless, I apologise.”

Dorian sighed, his shoulder rising and falling slightly. “You shouldn’t, I’ve been less than fair to you.” Dorian said. “Yet here you still are.” 

Taren smiled, still resting on his shoulder. “Here I am.” 

“I-” Dorian started to say something, his tone unusually searching. 

“-Would you like to spend the night in my tent?” 

Dorian stopped, a couple of breaths passing them by. He let out one longer breath and smiled. “I thought you would never ask.” He said with well honed charm. 

Taren found himself close to that nervous laughter again. So much for his boldness. He kissed Dorian, lifting his head to bring his lips to Dorian’s cheek. Dorian turned his face to meet Taren’s kisses, and some moments later they had kicked sand over the embers of the fire, and ducked into the small tent. 


	18. Here Lies the Abyss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Skipping the earlier fight with Erimond at the Watchtower, and getting straight to the siege at Adamant Fortress. 
> 
> Falling into the fade, the Inquisitor and some of his companions are faced with visions out of their nightmares, attacked by demons, and faced with a terrible predicament. 
> 
> CW: Major character death (obviously), blood and violence.

The inquisitor was at the front, casting heavy spells with rock and earth, defending against incoming curses, and enhancing the strengths of his warriors, all while shouting commands. Next to him, Cassandra hacked at demons and soldiers; Wardens turned to abominations. Weaving in and out of the commotion were his rogues: Leila disappeared, slashed, disappeared, showered demons in shards of ice sharper than glass, disappeared, stabbed again. Cole flitted in and out of shadows around her, and together they formed a storm of blades and blood. Alistair and Madeline Hawke rushed into the fray as well; the Warden flanked Cassandra, cutting down those who had once been his fellows-in-arms with solemn, heavy strikes. The champion twirled her staff, stabbed wildly with it’s blade, became surrounded by demons in Warden armour and then emerged again, covered in blood, as some dark curse tore through her foes. Varric was at her side, heavy bolts tricked with poisons and explosives striking down what was left. Behind him, Sera slung arrows, while Blackwall and the Iron Bull covered her sides. To the rear of the vanguard, Solas was healing and dispelling and defending, Vivienne wielded her magic like a sword, and Dorian was casting barriers, throwing fire. Together they took out the enemy mages, and as many demons as remained. 

They laid siege to the fortress, even offered life to those who would surrender. The Inquisitor with his shouted commands cleared a path for his soldiers on the battlements, and charged ahead to come upon the Warden Commander and her Tevinter conspirator, Erimond, seconds from the completion of their ritual. He spoke, pleaded with Warden Commander Clarel and her soldiers to end things before their time ran out, and some even looked moved by his speech. Clarel hesitated, finally questioning - but it was already too late. 

There was a crash, then a crack. Wood splintered with a ferocious roar. The battlements shook, stone crashing into stone, fire bluer than ice heated iron bindings until they screamed and popped and broke. The dragon tore a path through bright blades and soft bodies, through armour, through magic barriers, through everything. It barrelled through, chasing the betrayed Warden Commander as she ran after the Tevinter Magister, and the Inquisitor ran ahead to follow. His commands were decisive as he acted, always fast and fearless in the face of chaos. Hawke sprang to action without needing to be told; almost eager in her chase after the dragon. The Inquisitor’s quick-footed rogues flew ahead, he kept Cassandra at his side, and called to his mages - Dorian, Vivienne, Solas - to cover them from behind, while Blackwall and Bull joined the charge of Inquisition troops that were taking the Fortress from the remaining Wardens. 

The fortresses groaned like a ship hitting land at full speed, hull cracking and bursting under pressure. It was hard to see through the blood and smoke, there was no time for tactics or fancy maneuvers, and Dorian could do nothing else but fire, fire, fire at the terrible dragon that descended upon them until the magic wouldn't come through him anymore. And then there was another crash, and the ground heaved and fell away under a gust of flames that sounded like thunder. Ahead of him, the others were falling.

Dorian ran. Heart beating in his throat, right shoulder seizing with the weight of his staff, lungs on fire as he coughed through the smoke and dust, and still he ran. Warden Commander Clarel fell. The dragon fell. The fortress fell.

There was a flash and the familiar crackle of a rift opening, the green light of the horrors beyond, and they were gone.

In the moments that followed, time seemed to slow. The crumbling fortress settled, the dragon flew off in a panicked escape, and the screams died down. What Wardens still remained surrendered as the thrall of the false Calling that had been on them abated, and Inquisition troops began to herd the confused and injured away before more of the ruin could swallow them up. But Dorian ran forward, coming to a teetering halt at the edge of the smoking pit, looking down. There was nothing. 

Leila, Cole, Cassandra, Varric, Alistair, and the Champion had fallen. Taren had fallen. But in the pit below there was nothing but black ash and hot stone. The green-swirling crackling light of a rift had closed up again as though it had never even _been_.

The wardens that remained groaned in pain, cried out for mercy, fell to their knees where they stood. But if his magic were not already spent, Dorian would have killed them all.

\---

“Ahhrgh!” Leila clutched a hand to the back of her neck, her breathing heavy between cries of pain. “Fuck!” 

Cassandra drew her blade and approached the rogue. Leila was still crouched where she had fallen through the rift, but she wasn’t hurt. Through the clenched hand on her neck, red whisps filtered into the air, and her face scrunched. 

“What’s going on?” Cassandra demanded. “Where are we? And what is wrong with her?” Her blade still drawn, she stepped closer, her stance defensive. 

Alistair had fallen close by, and stood now, rubbing his head. He took in the scene with a troubled expression. “I think your friend is… how do I put this lightly?” He waved his hand in the air as another red wisp flew out from Leila’s clenched hand. “Possessed.” 

“Lightly possessed?” Suggested Hawke helpfully, joining them. She was drenched in blood, swipes of it over her face where she had rubbed away the sweat with bloodied hands, the dramatic fur of her Champion’s armour stained a deep red. Her light red-blonde hair escaped in wild tangles from where it had been tied back for the battle, and icy blue eyes flashed against the dark and dankness of _wherever_ this was. 

Clutching at the strange stalagmites of the ground around her, Leila groaned again as her eyes clouded over with smoke. As she cried out, the smoke thinned, and she shut her eyes tightly and began to whisper to herself. Cassandra watched intently, her blade trained on Leila’s neck. 

“You mean this whole time?” She asked, anger and fear in her voice. 

“I’m...not…” Leila’s words came grunted through shaky breaths. 

A voice boomed out of the abyss around them then, coming out of the grey fog that took the place of air in this strange netherworld. 

_“No, not possessed, not yet, but you could be, couldn’t you? Oh, but your spirit is such a broken thing, who poked all these holes into your mind, little mage? It would be so easy to fill you back up. Wouldn’t you like that? Not to feel empty anymore?”_

Cassandra whipped around, sword threatening the air. “Who said that?” 

She received no answer, but Cole took to the new surroundings with cries of his own distress. “Wrong, wrong, wrong. Wringing me out. Wrought right and rigid. Can't relax. Can't release…” 

Varric moved toward him, looking about with an unusual grimness. 

“Kid, you alright?”

“This place is wrong. I made myself forget when I made myself real, but I know it wasn't like this.” Cole stood, hands wringing and head turning this way and that. 

The Fade, then. Alistair grimaced. Why did it have to be the Fade?

“We’ll get you out of here soon, Cole.” The Inquisitor promised. He was rising from the ground unsteadily, a slight limp in his step, but there was no blood. He made it to his feet and leaned upon his staff. “We’ll find a way out. Focus.” He took steps toward Leila as he spoke, and looked toward Cole, but the reassurance was for everyone. The mark on his left hand flickered, and sweat was beading on his brow, but he turned to face Cassandra with severity in his features, and she lowered her blade. 

Whatever was happening with Leila seemed to end as inexplicably as it had begun. She stood shakily, palms up in surrender as she faced Cassandra and the Inquisitor. 

“I’m fine.” 

Cassandra was still glaring at her suspiciously, but the Inquisitor motioned them to follow and they did, pressing through the thick grey fog and finding a strange path in the dark. 

Before long, the voice continued its taunting. 

_“Being free now means you could have always been free. You let him keep you, all that time. You know the truth: you are not a fighter, just a slave. You always have been.”_

Leila’s face contorted with the accusations, but she was silent as they walked. Alistair watched her curiously, he didn’t know much about the young mage. His time at Skyhold he had spent mainly in preparation, working always with the Inquisitor and his higher-ranking officials. He still occasionally liked to joke and to share in games of cards in the tavern, but doing so brought him so much attention that he had avoided it save for on a few occasions with Hawke. And the Calling had been ever in his mind, dampening his usually immutable good moods. At least that had stopped. His head was clear, but his mind now was entirely preoccupied with the anger and dread he felt at the situation the Grey Wardens had created. 

“It’s a fear demon, I think. Whatever it says, don’t listen to it.” He cautioned the group. 

_“Always doing the bidding of others. Leashed to the Chantry, Laurent, Amandeus. You did as they commanded. How is the Inquisition any different? I could make you different. And no one would hurt you again.”_

The demonic voice struck out again, revealing personal details Alistair was sure he shouldn’t be hearing. He felt a wash of pity for the demon’s first target, and braced himself for his own turn.

“I don’t want your power.” The girl was cold, steadfast. Good for her. 

_“No, no, you are much too cowardly for that. My mercy, then. That is what you came for, isn’t it, little slave? An end.”_

“Oh shut up, already.” Said the Inquisitor. Alistair had never heard him angry, nor even really frustrated, despite seeing how heads turned in his wake, and knowing that his responsibilities were piled impossibly high. He had blood on his face like the rest of them, and he limped still, leaning heavily into the staff as he walked, but he didn’t seem tired, just determined. The man was only a little younger than himself, and he filled his role as Inquisitor with steady, well-spoken words and constant action, but he had always been bright, even cheery, full of eager questions and coming easily to laughter. He really did remind him of Talani. 

_“Always rushing in. Eager to fight, or just to die? I can make the nightmares go away. Isn’t that what you want? Wasn't that the plan? Allow me, so that you don’t have to.”_

The demon persisted, the girl must have been the most vulnerable among them, for it to try so hard. 

“Leave her alone.” Said Cole. Leliana had tried to explain Cole to him, but he couldn’t seem to keep an image of the boy in his mind. Not really a boy, a spirit. Well, he had fought alongside stranger allies. 

_“Ah, but it would be so easy to help her, wouldn’t it? You know that it is what she wants. You can see it. Perhaps you should be the one to help. Just as you did for all those in your tower.”_

“Don’t listen to it, Cole. Sparrow...” Varric reassured the spirit, offered a cautious guiding arm to the girl. Alistair liked Varric. Any friend of Hawke’s… but he was also just immensely likeable. And Varric seemed to care for those around him a great deal. 

“I won’t.” Said the boy. Well, that was good then

_“Are you afraid, Cole? I could make you forget. We are so very alike, after all.”_

“No.” 

Then, before they could do any more to get their bearings, shadows fell over the party.

\----

Alistair found himself standing before two graves. One for Griffon, and one for himself. He looked upon the headstones, cold grey rocks inset with plain bold letters. ALISTAIR THEIRIN. GRIFFON. No further inscriptions, and no stone for Talani. 

He found himself standing before these two tombstones and he _knew._ There was no marker for Talani because she had never returned, she hadn’t been there to write something witty into the stone, to lay down flowers, to rest beside him. _The best lamppost I ever licked._ She had once joked that it would be on his grave. _Hero of Ferelden, lover of cheese._ Death was coming early for both of them, if she couldn’t stop it, and so they had planned with dark humour whole lists of ways to lighten the ordeal. A Warden’s death in the Deep Roads, maybe, but there would be a memorial, too. A celebration of life, Talani would call it. Zevran was to recite outlandishly lewd poetry, Leliana would sing rowdy bard songs, not chantry hymns. Yellow daffodils, like the ones Alistair remembered from the gardens of the Redcliffe chantry, were supposed to be planted in their memory. Griffon was to get her own statue in bronze, sleeping forever at their keep in Amaranthine - the one they had built up together. Instead, he looked at cold, sullen, stones and it elt like the truth: that she wasn’t coming back, that it would all end in the dark. 

He stood paralyzed with this knowledge for a moment, his mind racked by the overwhelming hopelessness that hung in the air about him like a fog. Slowly, he realised that the fog was not metaphorical at all, but real and impenetrable. He didn’t know where he was. There was only the grave before him and an ever expanding mist of heavy grey despair. How did he get there? It was like a dream; a nightmare. Slowly his right thumb moved to stroke the ring he wore on his right ring finger. He felt the little bumps of inscribed runes. Protection, strength. He lifted his hand and rotated it back and forth in front of him. There was no sunlight, yet the ring glinted. Talani’s ring. Made of meteor ore, enchanted by Sandal; one half of a unique pair. She had the other, wherever she was. And she was not dead, and this was not his future. He looked intently at the onyx ring as it shone on his finger, inside, pressed against his skin, were their names, artfully engraved so that the letters entwined with one another. 

He remembered. The flash of light from the Inquisitor’s hand, the gaping rift, the fall, the slapping and pressing and pushing of angry magic, the voice of a demon. That was how he had arrived here, in front of these _wrong_ gravestones, alone in this foggy nightmare. He closed his eyes, kissed the ring, and took a deep centering breath; the kind that Templars used to focus themselves, that he used when the Calling got to be too much, that he had taught Talani, years ago, when the Archdemon had assailed them both with nightmares. On the long exhalation Alistair opened his eyes again, and as he breathed out the fog began to clear. The grey mist lifted, and he could see the Inquisitor wandering blindly in the distance, surrounded by a fog of his own. 

Alistair waded through the mist toward him, and it was like walking through mud. As he got closer he could hear Taren muttering, repeating words in Elvhen; names of gods, and more that Alistair could not understand. He called out to him, and he saw the Inquisitor look up, but he seemed not to see him, and began looking around himself in surprise. Alistair waded closer, calling out as he did, and the Inquisitor began to follow his voice, until finally they met. Taren was enveloped in fog, it floated about him, rising up from his feet and clinging to his legs. He waved it away with his hands, calling back. 

“Alistair? I know this is the fade but I can’t…” his voice trailed off, distant, even though he was standing right there. 

“It’s a trick, a demon has you in some sort of dream. You just have to focus, I think.” He was waving at the fog around Taren now, too. He saw Taren straighten his posture, and clasp his hands in front of him. The Inquisitor closed his eyes and mouthed a few words before opening them again, and more of the fog fell away. 

“You had one too? A nightmare?” He asked, seeing Alistair now. Alistair nodded. 

“Not my first though,” he said, “we’ll have to help the others. I expect they’re all lost in here.” He sighed. “Last time, it was a demon pretending to be my sister, trying to get me to stay. This time it seems to just want to scare us. Why can’t trips to the fade ever be _fun_?” 

“What did it show you?” Taren asked, he still looked shaken, and he was rubbing at his left palm. 

“Death and futility,” Alistair sighed, “the usual.” Taren cracked a small smile at that. “Same for you?” 

Taren held out his left hand now, showing Alistair the mark. At Skyhold, the Inquisitor kept the mark hidden, covered by a thick leather glove with open fingers - Alistair had not seen it in action, nor had he asked about it, figuring that Taren kept it covered for a reason. He looked at it in wonder now. The mark spat out green crackles of energy, like little sparks of lightning, and it carved cracks through Taren’s skin where the lines on his palm would have been, sparkling and tinting the skin around it with an eerie green glow. Right now it was active, and almost seemed to be pulsing beneath the Inquisitor’s skin. It looked painful. 

“It stopped.” Taren said, looking at his hand with the same uncertain expression as Alistair. “There was a rift, huge - like the one at Haven - and I couldn’t close it. And I could feel it… bleeding into me, like poison.” He shuddered, flexing his glowing hand. 

“Does it hurt?” Alistair asked, watching the crackles of green energy that leapt out of the Inquisitor’s hand. 

“Not always, but right now?” Taren clenched the marked hand into a fist and grimaced, “If we don’t get out of here soon I think it might fall off.” 

Alistair frowned. “Come on,” he said, starting to peer around himself into the thick fog surrounding them, “let’s find the others.” 

They found Hawke next, she had her staff out - blade forward - and was stabbing and launching fiery bolts at the ground around her feet. Through clenched teeth they heard her shout something like “GEROFFAME”, and various muffled curse words. Alistair yelled after her, and she looked toward them, searching. As they approached it became clear what she had been fighting - spiders, big and poisonous, like the ones in the caves of the Deep Roads, were swarming the ground around her. Taren cast his magic at the ground, trembling the earth and crushing the spiders under rock and dirt. Hawke and Alistair cleared the rest, and the spiders evaporated into the mist as they fell. 

“Fucking Fade was bad enough, but now it’s got fucking spiders too?” Madeline Hawke grumbled, twirling her staff expertly and hitching it into its place on her back. 

“It’s just the demon, messing with our heads.” Alistair said. 

Hawke kicked at some of the whisping mist around her feet. “You don’t say.” She said, unhappily. 

Leila found them before they could find her, and Alistair was impressed. 

“Are you alright?” The Inquisitor took in his companion with concern, and the girl shrugged unhappily. 

“Don’t like things in my head.” She spat. 

“What did you see?” 

The girl gritted her teeth. “Doesn’t matter. Just a bad dream, right? It isn’t real.” 

The sound of clashing steel came to them through the mists, and they turned toward it. Cassandra wasn’t far off, and through the fog they could see her battling against her foes. Mages with red eyes, rising up and breaking apart as they transformed into great demonic shades. She brought them down with angry cries as they rushed forward. 

Each demon that was felled dissolved into the mist, another thwarted dream. The Inquisitor called out to the warrior, guided her to focus, reassured her that it was all only a trick. Hawke, Alistair noticed, stood back with arms crossed, watching. She knew something. Hawke always did, when it came to strange magics. 

“It wasn’t just her,” Hawke nodded toward the young mage who fought with daggers, “that was your fear on her before too, your nightmare.” So she really wasn’t an abomination. Things were starting to look up. Hawke sighed. “If one of you stabs me in the back for a big boat I’m really going to lose it.” 

Leila was glaring at Cassandra, Taren was rubbing at his palm, and Hawke was striding ahead in long, confident steps, when the Nightmare spoke again. 

_"Did you think you mattered, Hawke? Did you think anything you ever did mattered? You couldn't even save your city. How could you expect to strike down a god?"_

“Oh, I really don’t like this thing.” Hawke muttered, not hesitating in her stride. 

_“Isabella will die. Just like your family, and everyone you have ever cared about.”_

“Really, it’s getting quite tiresome. Where’s Varric?”

She called out for him a few times, waving her staff against the heavy mist, before they heard his muffled reply. He had broken free on his own as well, it seemed, but the look of relief on his face when the party reached him explained enough of what he had seen. The corpses, hollow and red-lyrium laced, that faded into dust behind him explained the rest. Alistair caught a glimpse of one before it was gone: wild, red-blond hair and dead eyes. 

“Knew you wouldn't go down that easy.” He muttered, reaching out to grab Hawke by the arms as he did. “We getting out of here or what?” 

_"Once again, Hawke is in danger because of you, Varric. You found the red lyrium. You brought Hawke here..."_ Came the menacing voice out of the void. Varric twitched. 

“Keep talking, smiley.” He muttered angrily. 

“Come on, Varric.” He heard Hawke say, leading him back to the path. “You’re my best damned friend and you know it, I wouldn’t have this any other way.”

Varric looked the party over. “Shit. Where’s the kid?” He asked. They were still one short. 

“I’m here!” The spirit boy’s voice was meek, and Varric bounded toward the sound. Alistair wondered what sort of nightmares spirits had, and was glad to be spared the task of finding out. Now, they had to find a way out. 

A light glowed white in the distance. It was the only path any of them could see, and the Inquisitor led the way toward it. This time what came out of the mist was no nightmare, but a figure. A woman emanating light, the air about her clear. She looked old and patient as she stood waiting, glowing bright in a long flowing dress and one of those ridiculous Chantry hats. Alistair had never met the Divine, but her likeness was familiar enough; some places in Orlais even sold it on little porcelain plates. 

“Is it really her?” Cassandra looked on in awe as the Inquisitor asked his questions, and the spirit of the Divine - if it was the divine - gave them guidance. 

It seemed memories were being returned to the Inquisitor now, as they traveled along the Divine’s path. Taren had told him that he didn’t remember surviving the Conclave, that he remembered little other than spiders, falling, and waking up in pain. Alistair hadn’t been able to help but wonder, at that, if the rumours about him might be true; that he had been guided from the Fade by Andraste herself. He couldn’t help but to feel a little pulling at his faith. He had been raised in the Chantry, after all. And he had been to Haven, before any pilgrimages were made, and seen things there he still could not explain. 

It seemed though, that the only divine intervention that had occurred was that of the Divine Justininia. The news did not seem to bother the elf, but beside him Cassandra was frowning. 

_“Your Inquisitor is a fraud, Cassandra. Yet more evidence there is no Maker, that all your 'faith' has been for naught."_ The demon spoke once more. Hawke was right, it was rather tiresome. 

“What? You mean I _wasn’t_ chosen by Andraste? Who would have guessed _that_?” The Inquisitor interrupted the jeering demon, and Cassandra shot him a sideways glance, but his sarcasm seemed to lend her confidence. 

“Yes, the Inquisitor has been telling me as much for months, you will have to do better than that, demon.” She barked into the mist. 

"Such strong talk from the Mad Elf. You are just as ill-fit for your position as everyone believes. You will never be enough." 

"Well I suppose we'll all just have to make do." The inquisitor quipped back, real frustration in his voice now.

Alistait supposed it must be his turn, next. 

_“Did the King’s bastard think he could prove himself? It is far too late for that. Your whole life you have left things to more capable hands. The archdemon, the throne of Ferelden, who will you hide behind now?”_

Well, that was sort of an easy shot to take. “Is that all it’s got?” He wondered aloud, “I’ve heard worse from Morrigan.” 

_“And when did you last hear from your beloved Grey Warden? The one for whom you give up everything. She will do the same for you, and you will never see her again.”_

“Oh, I don’t think I really believe you. Not my first weird… nightmare demon... thing, you know.” He scoffed, as more fearling demons began to hop out at them from the dark. 

The little demonic minions of whatever evil guarded this place took on a different appearance for each of them, they soon learned. Hawke saw spiders, and swore continuously as she fought them, while the Inquisitor and the Seeker expressed to fighting shades and demons like those that came through the rifts. Varric’s apparently looked like lyrium corrupted beasts, and neither Cole nor the girl made mention of what appeared to them, though they struck down the apparitions with determination. For his own part, Alistair saw darkspawn. 

The fights were not easy, after so long a battle in the world of the living. The Inquisitor’s leg was clearly wounded, and it slowed him down. So much so, that lagging behind on a step his slow leg was struck, and he leapt away clutching to it, backing out of the fight as well as he could as he struggled to erect a barrier over himself. 

Alistair blocked him from the hungry creatures, keeping them at bay with help from Hawke, who backed into position beside him. Varric and Cassandra kept on fighting with their own share of attackers, but they were winning out. Alistair shouted to the mage with the daggers as she flickered in and out of view, and a second later she appeared over the inquisitor, digging through the pouches at her waist. She covered them in a barrier, taking the burden from the Inquisitor, and Alistair and Hawke pressed back against the demons with the others until the area around them was clear. But it wouldn’t last, they had to keep moving. Alistair returned to the Inquisitor. 

The Inquisitor was rising to his feet again, pressing into his staff with one hand while Leila lifted him up holding the other. She’d healed the fresh cuts and stopped his bleeding, but the pain seemed worse. 

“I’m alright.” He said, walking forward again on his own, albeit slower. His drive was commendable enough, but there would be more to fight before the way out was clear, and he looked in no condition to do it. 

Madeline Hawke finished her latest swearing fit as she felled one last demon, and in the brief reprieve she turned her angry attention on Alistair. “The Wardens have gone mad. Or maybe they always were. Someone has to stop them.” 

Cassandra agreed, and the spirit voiced his own cryptic sentiments as well. Send them away, don’t let them hurt more people. Alistair grimaced. The Wardens had gone mad, but he remembered all too well how desperately vulnerable Ferelden had been without them, the last time they were sent away. “They were corrupted,” he argued back, “driven to desperate measures.” Madeline scowled at him, but Varric stepped up. 

“Maddie, let’s just get through this first. One thing at a time.” Varric advised, to reluctant muttering from Madeline. 

“He’s right, we can deal with the Wardens after the giant fear demon.” The Inquisitor agreed unhappily, already casting spells ahead of him to take out more attackers from the new wave of demons which ambled toward them. Ahead, the green glow of a rift was visible behind a looming collection of fangs and hairy limbs. A giant fear demon, this one looking all too well like a spider. 

It didn’t move toward them, because it was too big. But waves of smaller demons skittered about it, and leapt out at them from above, and it blocked the way entirely with its claws and poisoned fangs. The fighting had left each of them exhausted, even these smaller demons were now taking their toll. The Inquisitor could barely walk, and Leila still supported him and bolstered the magical barriers he was casting over the rest of the party. Her daggers weren’t an option, if the Inquisitor was going to open that rift. There was no beating the demon; it towered over them at an impossible height, all eyes and snapping fangs. But, he could hold it off. Give the others a chance. 

A Grey Warden can fight longer, harder, than any man. He was, essentially, a ghoul. Tainted by darkspawn blood, slowly turning into something that was half-dead. The taint made the Wardens stronger, strong enough to fight endless waves of darkspawn, to face an Archdemon and bring it down. He didn’t tire as easily as other warriors did, even Seekers and Templars did not have the strength of demonic blood in their veins. He could hold out against this monstrosity long enough. He would have to. 

“Go.” Alistair commanded, gruff. What was that about always hiding behind more capable people? “I’ll hold it off.” 

Hawke blasted another small demon with fire from her staff, running up beside him to look out at the blocked path. “You were right.” Alistair told her, “the Wardens caused this, a Warden should -” 

“-A Warden should help them rebuild. The Wardens are your problem. Corypheus is mine.” Hawke cut him off, charging ahead as she did. 

“Hawke, wait!” Varric called after her, running, and she cast a force of magic in her wake that knocked him back. 

“We let him out, Varric. This is my mistake to fix. Tell Isabella I’m sorry…”

“Tell her yourself!” 

Alistair attempted to push forward, but her magic threw him back too. 

“And tell her I love her.” 

“Hawke…” The Inquisitor couldn’t keep her, as she charged toward the great underbelly of the beast, still swearing about spiders. 

“Go!” She shouted, “get out of here!” 

Cassandra pushed Varric forward, while Leila and Cole supported the Inquisitor toward the rift. Alistair kept them moving, fought deftly against any demon that sprang toward them. The inquisitor reached out, the anchor in his hand sputtering with crackling green light, and they were through. 


	19. Home

They stepped out, shakily and filled still with the energy of a fight, into the crumbling courtyard of Adamant Fortress. For them, the hours had been long, but they had passed strangely; interrupted by fits of dreamlike visions from which they woke only to still be trapped in the Fade. In the world of order and reality, they had in fact been gone only some small amount more than an hour. 

In that hour, Inquisition troops had taken the fortress, continued to clear it of demons, and gathered those Grey Wardens who still lived into the courtyard under guard. Solas had tended to some of those wounded in the fighting, and Inquisition soldiers had begun to gather the dead. And, without trace or understanding of what had happened to the Inquisitor and his six companions, some of his party had begun to scour the battlements and inspect the ritual altar in the courtyard. 

Dorian was among these, when the rift opened. The Inquisitor appeared first, shrouded in the light of the rift that came through his outstretched hand. It was with stumbling, exhausted steps that each of them came through, but at that first crackle of green light, Dorian was once again running. 

He reached the Inquisitor as the rift sealed behind him, and without thought he had his arms at his shoulders, hands gripping hard as he took in his bloodied face. Taren was a mess of sweat and dirt and blood. Much of his hair had escaped its tie, and what fell free was unruly and stuck ungracefully across his forehead with dirt, he had scrapes on his cheek, and the threat of a bruise forming under his eye. But, as Dorian breathed his name in disbelieving relief, one small corner of his lip twitched upward, and he took one long, deep breath, bringing his face closer, until they were standing as one messy forehead to another. Taren pulled him into a fast embrace, almost falling with the force of it, then released him again with effort, wincing as he shifted his weight from Dorian’s body back onto his staff. Dorian’s breath caught, as the shock of relief wore into one of concern. Cassandra stumbled at his rushing in with surprise, and her reaction brought him back to himself, to the urgency of the recent battle. 

“Careful,” he said to her disapproving look as he stepped back, “you’re next.”

He looked over them all now, as others rushed up to his side. The Inquisitor stepped forward, and though he rose up to view the crowd before him with a commanding eye, his posture was heavy, supported by a strong grip on the staff he dug into the ground in front of him. Alistair stood with him, looking out at the Wardens corralled there, relief and disappointment on his face in equal measure. Cole and Leila hid away behind the Inquisitor and the Grey Warden, looking as though they were being weighed down by the gravity of being back on the world’s surface. To his other side was Cassandra, bewildered relief on her face but a clench in her jaw, and she held to the arm of Varric. And Varric, Varric looked...

“Where’s Hawke?” Behind Dorian, Bull marked the obvious. 

Varric only shook his head. 

The Inquisitor spoke, and when he did, he spoke to everyone. He announced Hawke’s sacrifice, the honour and bravery of it. He let Alistair speak too, to the Wardens on their disgrace of duty. Then the Inquisitor spoke to soldiers, gave more commands. And though he made no promise of forgiveness, he did dictate that the Wardens should fight, and right their own wrongs. There were cheers for their return - for their victory, but the joy of it was muddled with grief and pure exhaustion. Once the attention was finally off of him, the Inquisitor slumped once more onto his staff, and steadied himself on the arms of his companions. 

\----

"Come on," Said Dorian, leading Taren away from the ruin of Adamant with a supportive arm under his shoulders, "let's go home."

Taren let out a long, tired breath, leaning into him. Dorian held to him tightly, walking slowly to accommodate his limp, and a realization struck him.

Home.

Taren had this peculiar habit, Dorian had noticed, of calling any place he slept "home". They would set up camp in some wild place, sealing nearby rifts and filling requisitions, and when it was time to call for rest, he would be calling the campsite "home". A keep with no roof where they set up rudimentary operations was "home" for two weeks, the refugee camps in Ferelden for a fortnight, a tent in a ruin for two days... Dorian looked down at Taren, his expression was grim, his face marked with blood and soot. His wounds had been hastily healed, but he limped with the lingering pain, his leg wounded in a way that simple battlefield magic could not reach. And as he pulled himself forward over the broken steps and rubble, his breath came laboured and slow.

Home.

Dorian wasn't like Taren. Discomfort irked him. Staying in tents, he longed for the ease and comforts of civilization - amenities; kitchens, real beds, a mirror. And unlike Taren, who seemed able to waltz into anywhere and make himself comfortable, it had been a long time since Dorian had felt linked to any place with much sense of belonging. But right now, he was envisioning Skyhold. The warm light of the library in the evenings, the quiet of old books, the sound of Taren talking, eyes brightening, his lips leaning slightly sideways in a perfect, crooked smile.

Home.

He wanted to bring him back to the sunny gardens, to let him heal and rest where he could sit reading, barefoot in the grass. Let him grin about the cold mountain air, safe.

Taren was heavy, leaning on him, and Dorian was tired. His arms ached from the weight of his staff and the power of his spells. The fight had left him exhausted. The fight, and the shock: the moment when they were gone. Taren clutched to him with a desperate grip, one hand at his waist as he allowed himself to be all but carried through the busy fortress and away from it all. He looked ahead, but his eyes were low and his head bowed. 

Dorian wanted to go home, to Skyhold. To tender moments in the waning evening, flirtation met with laughter, with interest. Conversation, acceptance, and all that honesty. To lie back down in that moment in that damned Ferelden bed... home.

Was it Skyhold, or was it _him_?


	20. Taren Lavellan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some backstory, and I've decided that I'm going to integrate Theo of Lavellan Bros fame into this story even if it kills me. 
> 
> I haven't properly put the chapter that introduced Theo ("A New Scout" https://archiveofourown.org/works/24865138) into this work, and maybe I never will, but it would theoretically have taken place sometime around the start of this fic. "Meet Kiara" hasn't happened yet, I'll work it in when it does. :)

Some stayed in the Approach. Bull and several of his Chargers joined with Inquisition scouts to clear away any remaining demons around the fortress, and Solas stayed to excavate whatever useful relics and information he could. They had all meant to stay longer, but those who had fallen through the rift returned to Skyhold, as did Dorian. 

The journey back was taken in wagons, and it was long. Dorian had time, over the return, to inspect wounds and re-treat the quick and slapdash healing laid on them in the heat of battle. Taren’s leg, he soon surmised, had suffered at least a fracture, if not worse, and it sported two long but well-healed gashes that would surely scar. He treated it with the assembly of a solid brace and potions made according to Taren’s own expertise on medicinal herbs, and by the time they had returned to Skyhold much of the swelling had been reduced, but he still couldn’t put his weight on it. 

Taren hadn’t been talkative, over the several days' journey back. No one had been. Nights had been quiet, though sometimes he awoke to sounds of distressed dreams; muffled muttering from one tent or another. Dorian didn’t know exactly what to do, in the wake of both victory and tragedy. A part of him remained truly glad to have them back, alive. But there was grief too, and the impossibility of how to treat it, when he hadn’t even been there. Cassandra spoke to him more than anyone else, writing notes when she did to include in her report, asking hesitant questions to him about the magic of it, though she should have asked the Inquisitor. 

The Inquisitor was quiet. His leg must have hurt a great deal, even with the poultices and potions they could craft, but he did not show it in anything other than increased sleep. Not knowing how else to approach the heaviness that travelled with them, Dorian did what he had seen Taren himself do when faced with that which he could not control: he simply worked. There were other wounded soldiers heading back to Skyhold with them, and he helped where he could. When their wagons finally wound up through the mountain roads and into view of the fortress he was grateful to finally see the castle’s walls again, and happier still to help Taren into a seat on his bed, watching as his expression finally betrayed just how weary he was. 

\----

“Well what do we have here? ‘Dear Taren Lavellan, I love you, Eirlana.’” Dorian had wandered to the desk, and he had in his hand a letter, which he quoted with an entertained smirk on his face. He held up the paper, the seal on it had fallen open to reveal the page: a slightly stained and childishly abstract painting of a rainbow, some squiggles of wobbly written words in Common, and a name signed in Elvhen marks that were half backwards. Taren wondered how Dorian had even deciphered it. “Should I be jealous?” Dorian teased, motioning at the desk. 

Taren looked across the room, still barely registering everything in his surroundings. Creators, he was tired. There was a pile of letters there, more than he had expected, and many of them looked to be similarly unsophisticated. It was good news. How he had needed good news. He leaned back into the pillow on his bed, his legs stretched out on the soft mattress. It didn’t ache so much, thanks to the potions he had taken to calm the muscles, but it would again soon enough. 

Dorian walked over, holding the letter out in offer. Taren took the letter from Dorian’s hand, and he looked closely at the rainbow, the little stick figure family, the poorly written name. “Creators, she can write now.” He breathed, the first real smile he had felt in days slowly pricking at his face. He shifted on the bed, and Dorian looked disapproving, but he made room regardless, and pulled Dorian down to sit beside him with a gentle tug at his waist. 

“I should get to reading them.” He said, looking again to the pile of letters on his desk. Most of them were not official or even properly sealed, but some still were. 

“It can wait.” Dorian insisted, and he pressed his palm into his own. “In fact I have a feeling someone left that one sitting open precisely so that you would. Good news means you can relax, Amatus.” 

Dorian knew he had been concerned, that he had sent aid to the clan, even soldiers, when asked. He hadn’t gone into much detail, but his mind was regularly occupied with thoughts of his clan, and occasionally it came into their conversations. When letters came asking for help he had not kept his worries a secret, at least not from Dorian. Perhaps he was right, and Leliana had taken it upon herself to make certain he saw good news first. He wouldn’t have put it past her, and he was tired. 

“Tell me about her.” Dorian nodded toward the letter Taren still admired. 

Taren had told stories of those who had been close to him in his life before. He tried, usually, to keep them short, to mainly answer questions rather than to carry on endlessly. He missed them, his clan - his family - but there was so much else to discuss besides his nostalgia, and the stories he had in his past felt unrelatable, marking him again as being out of place among his new peers. He had no tales of duels nor debauchery, as Dorian did, no opinions on things like fashions or theatre. Usually, Dorian asked about things that were cultural; holidays, the practice of magic, stories about the gods, even his views on tradition. And when they shared memories of home together, Dorian’s own tales were mostly of a similar nature. Dorian had an interest in politics, culture, and even religion, but he only spoke of the people of his home as passing thoughts; funny little scenarios in which one party wound up wounded or socially embarrassed. 

Taren shrugged. “A dear friend’s daughter, she must be…” he counted the months in his head. Too many. “She would be five now, her and her twin sister.” 

“Must have been exciting, a home filled with children.” Dorian commented, looking at the letter. “You must miss it.” 

Skyhold wasn’t really a place for families. Some who came to offer aid were young, teenagers without much else, eager to work for a cause. Others had families they left behind, soldiers who wrote frequently to wives and children staying in safer places. There were some children; a kitchen maid with a young toddler, a merchant who sometimes returned from his trips to restock supplies with his three children. Mostly the fortress housed soldiers, merchants, and workers. Families were only seen as infrequent visitors; the mountains weren’t exactly easily accessible. Taren thought of happier times, risking some feelings of guilt and homesickness for the memories. 

"I was there when they were born," he smiled at the memory, "the Keeper and First always are, in case something happens." 

"Delivered many babies, have you?" Dorian asked. He sounded surprisingly impressed. 

"Not delivered, we only step in if there's need of magic. Otherwise we have an honour for that...midwife, is that what you call it? But I've said the blessings at several births." Taren answered, smiling as another wave of the bittersweet nostalgia hit him. 

"What a marvellous thing. And I suppose they all just run about, growing up all around you..." Dorian was being oddly wistful, "I certainly never drew rainbows for any of my parents’ friends, they were far too busy. Perhaps for a nanny, once." 

Taren frowned, the more he learned about Dorian’s family life, the less he liked it.  "In Elvhen, we use the words for family for everyone. Your clanmates are your brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles. Even when they aren't related. The clan helps to raise all the children." He shrugged, "there are no nannies." 

"Did you bless the birth of that 'brother' of yours too then?" Dorian asked, referring to his clanmate who had recently joined as a scout, and taken up a position with an Inquisition company out scouring the wilds.   
  
"Theo? No... he joined the clan later." Taren chuckled, "Keeper Deshanna assigned me to keep an eye on him, I think she thought we'd be good for each other. She called it 'leadership training', as I recall." 

"You were a First, and that meant you were to be the Keeper, one day." Dorian concluded. Taren nodded, he hadn’t spoken about that duty until now, and he found himself surprised that Dorian knew or cared so much about how Dalish clans functioned. 

"It did... I'm not sure if it means anything, now." He did not say that it used to mean everything. 

"You don't think you'll go back?" There was something incredibly sensitive in the question, a level of concern he hadn’t expected. 

"Of course I will... " He would. Of course he would go back, he just didn't know that he would ever  _ stay.  _ And as for one day becoming Keeper, such expectations felt distant now, too distant even to feel anything about, one way or another. He had enough to do, figuring out what it meant to be Inquisitor. He hesitated. "I try not to think about it too much, if I'm being honest." 

"Well now, that I understand." Dorian said, thankfully not pressing for answers further than that. He would be one to understand, still in line to be a Magister as he was. Taren tried not to think about that much, either. "Tell me more about it, your life before." Dorian's prompting brought Taren back to the present. 

"About being Dalish?" It wasn’t like Dorian to poke curiously at his culture. He was fascinated by explanations of tradition, but he was no tourist, and Taren appreciated that. He enjoyed company that treated him like a person; a skilled mage and an amateur scholar. He liked to talk about his people, what they meant to him, but to talk about  _ being Dalish _ was something else. 

"No, about you. You don't say nearly enough, you know." Dorian’s voice was soft, inviting. They had had many conversations, on many topics. Generally, the focus was expanding on their academic knowledge, but in truth things turned often to lighter subjects and laughter, discussing things like musical tastes or holiday feasts, sometimes carrying on with easy musings long into the night. 

"What are you talking about, all I do is-" 

"- You ask questions, you're  _ the Inquisitor. _ ” Dorian interrupted with emphasis. “I think it's my turn. The real Taren Lavellan: let's really dive in." He winked, switching to a tone that was much more playful. 

“My life's story, is that it?” Taren tried not to scoff. It wasn’t much of a tale. 

“And why not? They’ll be rewriting it from under you soon enough, getting it all wrong. I’d like to get to know the real thing, as it were. And anyway, you’re always saying how much you like me...” 

Taren smiled, he had no idea why Dorian was taking this tack. It wasn’t that he had never shown interest before, but he never pressed for closeness or intimate details. “Are you saying you like me, Dorian?” Taren asked, squeezing the hand that still held his own as he teased. 

“Oh don't be so outlandishly juvenile.” Dorian scolded, though he too was smiling, “In fact I’m rather upset with you for almost dying again, without me. Perhaps I’m worried I won’t get another chance.” Dorian’s tone still mocked, but the truth in it was clear, and he was still squeezing his hand. 

“You know if you're really so curious, I think Leliana has a whole book. I could get her to lend it to you.” Taren offered lightheartedly. 

Dorian shook his head, tutting. “Much more fun to hear you tell it. And for what it’s worth, you practically know everything there is to know about  _ me _ now, don’t you? You met my father, for Andraste’s sake. I'm not exactly in the habit of bringing men home to meet the parents, you know.” 

Taren stifled a laugh. “You want to even the score, then?” 

“Seems only fair, Inquisitor.” 

Taren smiled, looking again at the letter. “It’s not all happy childhoods and blessing babies.” He admitted, leaning back. “And there are very few sword fights.” 

Dorian leaned back too, urging him to go on with a look. 

Taren suddenly found himself feeling oddly nervous, and so he began his tale with the exaggerated voice of a storyteller. “Well, let’s see. I was born in the Free Marches to Clan Dar’Halath.” He closed his eyes as he spoke, reciting as though from a book, casting a lighter tone over the hard, early days. “The clan moved mostly around the borders of Starkhaven -'' he opened one eye to look at Dorian, “-should I get you a quill, in case you want to write this all down?”

“Ha ha, you’re very funny.” Dorian muttered, cozying up next to him. It was comfortable, and Taren felt his nervousness fading under the feeling of Dorian wedged into the bed at his side, even as he dug up the old, sad things in his memories. “I thought Lavellan was the name of your clan.” 

“It is.” Taren said, closing his eyes and settling back into his storytelling posture. “I was getting to that.” 

Dorian rolled his eyes, but leaned into him anyway. “I suppose I asked for it.” He said. 

“You did. Now where was I - right. We were a very small clan, I don’t remember how many… My parents were traders, but they were killed when I was seven. I started showing signs of magic when I was -”

“- Wait,” Dorian interrupted him, and Taren looked away from the expression of shock and pity that would surely be on his face, “your parents were both  _ killed when you were seven _ ? And you were just going to gloss over that like it was nothing?” 

“I told you not all of it was about blessing babies.” Taren sighed, “It was a long time ago.” 

“All this time I’ve been complaining away about my own poor parentage, now it hardly seems fair. I - I’m sorry.” He squeezed Dorian’s hand in thanks, but still couldn’t quite bring himself to look over at his apologetic face. 

“They were good people, I wish I remembered more about them.” Taren said, a slight sadness breaking through in his voice. He settled back into story-telling, moving on to better memories. “It wasn’t long after that when my magic began to manifest, and the clan wasn’t ready to bring up another mage. Clan Lavellan took me in when I was ten.” 

“What, just kick out the orphan boy? Ten years old and off you go?” He seemed miffed, and Taren bristled. The hard reputation of Dalish clans was a popular thing, born out of misunderstanding as much as self-preservation on the part of clans who wished not to be trifled with. The reality of a struggling clan was much more complex, even if it was sometimes harsh. 

“It doesn’t happen like that.” He corrected, and now he did watch Dorian’s face, making sure he understood. “We were sister clans. There are networks, scouts, we would connect when travelling the same areas. Everything was negotiated, no one abandoned anyone. Clans like Lavellan that were larger could keep to one area more permanently, forming bonds with other clans, it was safer to leave…” This next part was more complicated, a piece of Dalish life that really was unfair, though it never seemed to occur to humans. “The clan was falling apart, I don’t know the details, but eventually they weren’t a clan anymore at all. And Lavellan needed a First, it was an honour.” 

“It still must have been hard.” Dorian sighed, “I had hoped to cheer you with happy stories of home, not dredge up old hardships.” 

Taren considered his words. “It was, at first.” He had been helped and welcomed, allowed to learn and play, been lovingly tutored in magic. There had been pain, and grief, and the angry outbursts of a hurt child, but even orphaned he had never been allowed to feel really alone. “The people really did become my family.” He explained, and it really did cheer him a little, to think of the people who had raised him, and the others that the clan had taken in after him. “I turned out alright.” 

“I suppose you did.” Dorian looked at him intently, as though seeing him in some new light, and unusual though it felt to be so examined, Taren was glad of it. If there was anyone with whom it felt right to lay out all his life’s story, it was Dorian. He smiled, he always did feel at home in sharing, the closeness of being known and understood warmed him, even if some of the past was unhappy. Dorian kissed him, a gesture that was quick and tender, and his body warmed a little more. 

“What else can I tell you, perhaps an embarrassing story, scandalous affair?” Taren asked playfully, keeping the subject in its targeted cheerful zone. 

“Oh that does sound much better. Troublemaker like you, I expect you've broken a heart or two by now.” Dorian replied, keeping the same lightness in his voice. 

“I do try not to.” Taren put a deliberate amount of feeling into the answer, the depth of these teasing remarks did not elude him. “Honestly, there hasn't been anyone for me in quite a while. And only once where any of it felt at all real…” He shrugged, but his heart was beating faster. He may have made up his mind about how he could react to what other people felt, but his own feelings still took him frequently by surprise. 

“Well, at least you've got a frame of reference then.” Dorian said, quietly musing. 

“Why, Dorian Pavus, I daresay you _do_ like me.” He smiled, and Dorian kissed him again, playfully brushing his lips over his neck. 

“Very well, you’ve caught me.” He admitted dramatically, “I like you a great deal. In fact, right now, I'd like to strip you naked, kiss you relentlessly, and fellate your cock so graciously and expertly that you erupt with euphoric pleasure multiple times." He said it with a wink, and a smile that knew exactly what it was doing. “I’ve seen your dirty books, and honestly I think they could stand to learn a thing or two.” 

Flirtation was one thing, but this sudden jolt into blatant sexuality was just unfair. 

Taren swallowed, unable to shake the image of it from where it sprang into his mind. How was it that Dorian could just up and say things like that to him, without even a hint of embarrassment? He tried not to laugh as the familiar eager nervousness that came with such strong words rushed through him. “You mean that, don’t you?” 

Dorian grinned and kissed his neck again, lingering there as he muttered against Taren's skin, making Taren's cheeks burn hot. "Every word." 


	21. Better than Books

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm continuing to try to keep the NSFW stuff to self-contained chapters, so those of you who aren't interested can skip (or, let's face it, more likely so that anyone only here for the sex can easily find it ;) ) so as usual this chapter is porn without plot, even if it's sappy, sappy porn. Look, I don't know how to write sex any other way. Alright, on with the "thank the Maker you aren't dead" sex :D

Dorian forbade him from moving, as he traced lines across his jaw with his lips, kissing him down to the collar of his shirt and quickly making way past the simple buttons of his tunic to continue the trail over his chest and shoulder blades. He slipped the loose cotton over Taren's head in one swift movement, and positioned himself carefully over him, feeling his arms and torso with firm hands. Taren reached up to drape his arms over Dorian’s broad shoulders, pulling him closer, closing his eyes and finding his lips with his own. Every tired muscle of his body felt lighter in the gravity of their kiss, and he brought his focus wholly to the sensation of Dorian’s lips against his own. Very rarely was Taren’s mind clear, but as their lips pulled at one another, digging in again and again with quick playful nips and long exploratory wrestlings of tongues, he could hold no thoughts, even if he had wanted to. The sensation was addicting, and he fell into the peace and passion of it, allowing his hands to move where they would, sliding over Dorian’s arms, pulling at the robes that clung tight to his torso. He attempted to shift closer, to pull Dorian into a straddle over him, and his leg objected distantly, but with enough force that he fell away from the kisses with a disappointed groan. 

“I told you not to move.” Dorian growled as he pushed him gently back down onto the propped-up pillows against the headboard of his bed. Then he rose from the bed and stood at Taren’s feet, turning away as he slowly disrobed himself from the tight fabrics and leathers he was wrapped in. It was a remarkable thing, really, how easily such complicated looking garments came off. He moved slowly, confidently removing one article after another as Taren watched him, captivated by the lean muscles tensing under his shoulders, admiring the smooth firm shape of his ass with eager eyes. and when Dorian turned to face him again, fully naked as he hung his assortment of clothes over one of the bedposts, he cast Taren a look with intense eyes and a teasing smile. Taren felt his blood run hot, his erection swelling as he took all of him in from the bed. 

Dorian stayed at the foot of the bed, leaning over his legs and pulling at his trousers with careful slowness. Taren glanced unhappily down at his own body as Dorian finished ridding him of his own loose clothes. 

“You’re making me feel rather disappointing.” He remarked, still obediently not moving from his place while Dorian gently parted his legs, moving only the right to the side as he continued to carefully avoid his still somewhat swollen and newly scarred left leg. 

“Disappointing?” Dorian frowned, coming to his knees on the foot of the bed. He moved a hand up his right thigh, massaging an arc over the muscles and ending with a firm grasp over the base of his erection. “Hardly.” His eyes flicked up to meet Taren’s with a glinting mischievousness before he lowered his head to sink more kisses into his body. He pressed his lips over his thigh, covering its entirety in quick kisses that became deeper as he moved inward, until he was sucking at the skin and flicking his tongue teasingly over the sensitive space beneath his cock. 

Taren leaned his head back into the pillows with a desperate gasp as Dorian slowly worked his way up and down, still only allowing him little tastes of pleasure through kisses and quick, tender previews of sucking that he wished would last. 

“Do you ever use magic for pleasure, Inquisitor?” Dorian brought his face up to Taren’s for the question, teasingly close to his lips as he spoke, formal in his wording and dastardly in his delivery. Taren swallowed as a cool hand reached down to grasp him again. 

“Not - ah-” Dorian cooled his aching leg, too, softly washing a delicate chill over the most objectionable part of it with a long trace of his hand along the skin, “not often…” 

There were magical forms of protection, ways of containing the mess, and he had cast them casually during their previous nights together as any mage would, but beyond such practical applications he had experimented little with magic in his past encounters. Perhaps between two mages things were different, but in his experience, more than that was mostly unwelcome in matters of physical pleasure. 

Dorian made a thoughtful sound as he leaned down again, placing kisses on Taren’s chest that lingered with warmth. “Allow me to enlighten you, then. Trust me?” 

Taren nodded, closing his eyes once more and leaning his head back as Dorian wrapped his lips over his erection and with both hands held to him, shooting subtle sensations of warmth and cold into vulnerable parts of him until he was tingling and shuddering with the magic and the intensity that accompanied his grasp and the strong pull of his mouth. He could feel the pressure building within him, and gripping at stray sheets he tried not to writhe too intensely into it, his breaths hitching into surprised gasps. Dorian teased, returning every so often to Taren’s lips while his hands continued their magical work, and watching him move Taren’s desire swelled until he could no longer hold back, his hips rising up to greet him and his legs tensing as he neared release. 

Dorian moved a cool hand to his bad leg, relaxing it under a spell as his other tensed and bent at the knee with the growing pleasure. He came hard, as Dorian kept his mouth around him, draining him of all he had. He swore quietly, dipping into his natural tongue unconsciously, his mind still devoid of all clear thought. 

Dorian returned to his side, lying propped on his elbow next to him with a satisfied smile on his face. He waved a hand over Taren’s leg and the coldness evaporated, though the spell which had relaxed his muscles remained. “Shouldn’t keep it cold too long.” Dorian advised as the magic lifted. “I hope you’ve found this to be a more thrilling experience than what’s in those little novels.” He winked. 

Taren chuckled, blushing. “Yes,” he agreed, “that was…” he failed to find the word, but swore in Elvhen again instead, to Dorian’s amusement. “I should return the favour.” He leaned in to caress the tip of Dorian’s ear with his lips, savouring it as Dorian closed his eyes and let out a long breath. 

“You can Inquisit me again when you’re mended.” He insisted with a pleasant smile as Taren pulled away, but Taren placed his hands firmly at his waist and lifted him to kneel, moving him with a commanding look to straddle his own hips on his knees. 

“I can do a little more than that.” He promised, sliding lower into the bed and bringing his hands around to the back of Dorian’s thighs. He didn’t have the same practiced ability to cast magic into the play, but he had firm hands and a ready mouth, and Dorian leaned back for him with moans of pleasure as he gratefully reciprocated the act upon him. He lost himself in the fun of it, taking Dorian’s hard erection deep into his mouth and spiralling over it with his tongue, feeling how his legs tensed under his hands and watching for the little gasps that escaped his lips with mischievous eyes. He made him come quickly, enjoying the way Dorian returned the reaction of swearing in another tongue as he did. Dorian rolled back to the side of him, and after thanking him with a few more heavy kisses he rose, getting to his feet to find a pitcher of water and returning while grabbing some of his garments off the bedpost. 

“You can stay.” Taren said, watching him sit on the edge of the bed. 

Dorian looked over his shoulder at him, pausing with fabric still bundled in his arms, he smiled sweetly. “It’s late, I should let you rest. I fear I’ve kept you from it long enough already.” 

“I meant stay the night.” He motioned him over, patting at the spot to his side. “If you don’t miss your own spectacular bed too much, that is.” The joke did it, bringing a genuine laugh out of him as he draped his clothes over the bedpost once more and returned to the space next to him. 


	22. Let's Be Foolish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> IT IS TIME FOR MY FAVOURITE LINE IN THE WHOLE DORIAN ROMANCE. 
> 
> If I never finish this fic, I can die happy for having written this chapter. (But I'm still gonna finish this fic don't worry)

Taren’s hand found a place in Dorian’s hair, loosely twirling locks between his fingers, while Dorian’s gaze rested somewhere between the bed and the wall, and his lips formed a slight frown. 

“You look distracted.” Taren noted, leaning forward to plant a kiss on Dorian’s bare shoulder. Dorian looked back at him with a start, and quickly erased the frown from his lips. 

“Sex will do that, it’s distracting.” He said, flashing a coy smile over where his frown had been. 

“I heard a rumour.” Taren kissed his shoulder again, pressing for an answer with raised eyebrows and meaning in his voice. 

“Fine, you got me, there is something I’m curious about. Where _do_ we go from here?” He sighed, “We’ve had fun, perfectly reasonable to leave it here and get on with killing arch demons and such, but you… well you have a certain way of muddling everything up with sentiment, don’t you?” He finished accusingly, and Taren chuckled. 

“Tell me what you want.” Taren replied. He was sure of his sentiments, but the dance of it brought about pangs of insecurity nevertheless. 

“All on me then?” Dorian asked with a hesitant smile. 

“Should it be all on me?” He kept a hand on Dorian's shoulder, and Dorian kept his gaze somewhere in the air near the wall, looking hesitant. 

“No, I suppose not. You are the one of us who seems to know how to be upfront about such things, is all.” He sighed. “I do like you, more than I should. More than might be wise. Don’t pretend I never warned you.” 

Taren kissed his shoulder again. “I had suspected as much.” He said. 

Dorian sighed again, this time with a glance toward his face, and the frown was back in force. “But if it is to eventually end, better now than later. I won’t be pleased, but later might be dangerous.”

“Dangerous?” Taren’s heart fell with the talk of it. The thought of an eventual end hadn’t escaped him, though he had tried to let it.

“Later, walking away might be harder.” 

Taren sighed too. He always had been good at putting words to what was in his heart, but that didn’t make feeling this way easier. Still, he had wrestled with the risks enough. In the midst of nothing but uncertainty, at least he was certain about this.

“You know that I want more than just fun,” he began, tackling the subject the only way he knew how - with direct honesty. “And I know I can be forward... but I won't push you for it.” But would he allow it all to remain so informal, if that was what was asked of him? His stomach did a quick flip. 

“You don’t." Dorian shrugged his shoulder out from under his hand and turned with his whole body, facing him, but still looking searchingly past his eyes into empty air. "It’s only… I keep expecting something different. Where I come from, anything between two men, it’s about pleasure. It’s accepted, if taken no further." Taren placed a hand on his, nodding in quiet understanding. "You learn not to hope for more. It would be foolish to.” Dorian looked down at his hand, clasped under Taren's, and his voice wavered as he whispered this admittance. 

Taren smiled, watching Dorian's face as he talked. He squeezed the hand under his. Yes, he was certain about this. 

He pulled Dorian's hand up to his own cheek, and pulled his head forward, detaching Dorian's gaze from the wall and locking it in his own.

"Then let's be foolish." He replied, daring Dorian's face into a smile with his own. 

He kissed him, soft at first, but with a gentle push at the back of his head as he pressed into it. They stayed like that for minutes, if not hours, certainty settling into them both. 

\----

Dorian awoke in Taren’s bed, his clothes still hung over the bedposts and his body loosely wrapped in only light sheets. A grey morning light reflected off the walls, and outside birds were chirping. He pushed himself up into a seat, looking over at where Taren lay in nothing but simple shorts, his sheets tossed aside. The tattoos on his arms and chest looked brighter in the light, standing out in a reddish brown against his suntanned and freckled skin. He took a moment to examine the design that wove its way around his body, tracking the intricate lines as they formed delicate patterns, swirling like vines, sometimes ending tipped with leaves. They were beautiful, really. There wasn’t another word for it. 

Taren stirred with his movements, and soon his pretty green eyes were fluttering open, and he was looking up at Dorian with a smile. 

“Good morning.” He pushed himself up into a similar seat with a wince and a hand on his leg. 

“You need to see the healers.” Dorian noted, as Taren grimaced again as he swung his legs over the side of the bed. 

Taren glanced at the window. The morning was overcast, but the sun was already high in the sky. “I should be getting to work.” He said, ignoring Dorian’s advice. 

“You should be staying off your feet.” Dorian corrected him, “but I expect that is too much to hope for, from you. At least see a healer _first_.” 

Taren nodded. “You’ll get no argument from me. The sooner I’m mended, the better.” He was referring to the ability to run and fight, of course, but Dorian replied with a squeeze at his waist as he moved in behind him on the bed. 

“I agree.” He murmured, leaning down to push his lips through some of Taren’s mussed hair and onto his neck. 

The morning was interrupted by a knock at his door. Taren rose to answer it and Dorian briefly considered hiding under the covers. But then Taren limped, and winced with a short gasp of pain as he struggled to move his leg, and Dorian sprang up to steady him. 

"You sit." He commanded, turning him by the shoulders and pressing him gently back onto the bed. "I'll get it." 

Dorian dressed, not fully, but presentably, and went to the door. Taren sat obediently behind him on the bed, still in only his smallclothes. 

It was Josephine. He gathered it must have been unlike her to come to call personally, because Taren looked up in surprise at the sound of her voice. 

She cleared her throat nervously. "I am sorry to disturb… you both… at such an early hour, but I have a matter to discuss with the Inquisitor which I am afraid simply cannot wait." 

From the bed, Dorian heard Taren shuffling. "I'll be down right away." He offered. 

"Have...have you read the letters which came for you?" Josephine asked cautiously, speaking into the room, past Dorian. 

"Not yet, why?" 

"There are more waiting, I'm afraid. We will discuss it when you are ready." She left with a courteous nod toward Dorian, which he sensed held some less courteous meaning under its surface. 

He returned to the bed and handed Taren a shirt as he approached; one of his soft, simple things that were kept folded on top of the unused dresser on which his staff and empty pack were leaned. For easier packing, he supposed. Taren wasn't exactly one for staying in one place. 

Taren pulled the wool shirt over his head and attempted again to stand. Dorian stopped him with a look, sifting through the pile of neatly folded vestments until he found a pair of dark brown heavy cotton trousers. There wasn't much to do, in picking an outfit from these piles of muted cottons and wool knits, but the dark colour and smooth texture would contrast at least with the braided patterns woven into the wool shirt, while still maintaining that soft and comfortable "life in the mountains" sensibility that he had come to appreciate about everything Taren wore. He may not have been one for taking much care in his dress, but with a little coordination the collection of well worn and outdoorsworthy handspun garments the Inquisitor kept could potentially be called a "style". At least, perhaps with the right accessories. 

"That woman is going to kill me." Dorian muttered into Taren’s ear as he leaned over him to help him up. 

"Well she'll have to go through me first." Taren replied with a chuckle as he steadied himself on Dorian's arm in order to work his way into the clothing. Then Taren kissed him, and it was such a grateful and happy thing that Dorian promptly forgot all about his nervousness, and felt almost sure again. He always seemed so absurdly happy to be kissing him. 

He helped him down the stairs and made him swear to see a healer and find some real crutches after his meeting with the ambassador, and he left after Taren planted another happy peck on his lips, there in the main hall, trying not to look as shocked by it as he felt. 


	23. Questioning Beliefs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Obligatory post main-quest checkins. Lots of talk and a little examination of faith.

Taren had taken some of the letters from his desk to review before meeting with Josephine, but as he flipped through them, he realised that something was very clearly off about the correspondence that had been piled onto his desk. All of it was good news. There were a few official notes, invitations to more balls and frivolous parties which came parcelled with ready-written polite rejections he would have only to approve. From his clan were more cheerful pieces of children’s artwork, and a couple of notes that affirmed the safety established in Wycome and shared admiration for the Inquisition’s help. Yet in these notes was a tone of something else, a well-wishing sensitivity reserved for illness and mourning. He braced himself as he entered the Ambassador’s office. He had received the good news first, now he would surely hear the bad. 

\----

Josephine had perfectly prepared the manner in which she would breach the delicate subject with the Inquisitor. Cassandra, short yet efficient, had sent word ahead to let her know of the revelations had in the Approach, and of the tragedy that had befallen the Champion of Kirkwall. Yet other letters had arrived as well: word from Orlais, and word from the Free Marches, from Clan Lavellan. So when it came to revelations in the Fade, Josephine was less concerned with what those revelations _were_ and much more with how she would keep them all organized and manageable, in the midst of everything else.

On the evening of their return, the Inquisitor’s party had looked harried. The journey back from the nightmare in the desert had done them few favours. Josephine was aware that Hawke would not be with them, but she had not been prepared for the hole she had left, seemingly in the heart of the Inquisition, for there was a quietness about all of them, and their faces were tired and pained. She hadn’t kept the Inquisitor, only sent him upstairs to rest. But as the morning drew on she grew concerned, wondering if by some mistake a letter had been missed, leaving him to take in the news accidentally and alone. She went to check. 

As the Inquisitor joined her in her office only a few minutes later, she bade him to sit, and offered him a cup of tea. He stood uneasily leaning against his staff, an assortment of letters in his free hand, eyeing the tea with suspicion. 

“Please, your Grace, I think you should sit.” She said more directly. 

Josephine was then going to inform the Inquisitor on the currently unfolding situation of his people in the Free Marches. She was going to give him the news of his Keeper’s death with tact and sympathy, and she was going to allow the rest of his affairs to wait. She had prepared the wording she would use in order to break the news diplomatically, yet with sensitivity. The best laid plans, as they say. 

The Inquisitor sat heavily in the chair across from her, and he spread some of the letters he carried out on her desk. And before Joesphine could open her mouth, Taren was looking her in the eye with a knowing seriousness. 

“Who died?” He asked. 

\----

It had happened quietly, out of sight and even, amongst everything else, out of mind. But it did not happen entirely without care, nor without responsibility, and it was this knowledge that would haunt Taren most in the days that followed the news of Keeper Deshana Istimaethoriel’s death. There had been letters detailing the plight of clan Lavellan, searching for some safe place within the breaking world, as the clan struggled through bandit attacks and the suspicious actions of the ruler of the nearby city state of Wycome. The Inquisition had helped. Careful and attentive in his approach had Taren been in response to these calls for aid, And the clan had thanked him for it. Yet it happened; whilst the Inquisitor was busy falling through rifts and fighting demons, his clan was fighting in a battle of their own, among the townsfolk and the nobility of Wycome. Letters came to share the news of victory, but it was bittersweet, and in his meeting with Josephine she handed him the rest; detailed accounts from people he knew, full of heartfelt thanks and shared mourning. Taren worked through the letters again and again, relief and grief washing over him as he did. 

Josephine’s ambassador had discovered the Venatori conspiracy in the town, and Leliana’s agents had aided the elves of his clan in thwarting it. Finally, he had sent troops to help the clan take the city, and they had succeeded. But these battles had not been without loss; nobility in Wycome were slain for whom there had come an answer, and several elves lost their lives before the city had settled. Some names he didn’t recognise, new arrivals to the clan he had never even met, but others conjured faces he could see in his mind, hunters and warriors he had known when he was younger.

Every Dalish elf understands that sometimes, hunters and warriors die. There had been a war before the Inquisition started, and the world hadn’t been much kinder to the elves before that. Clan Lavellan had been large and mostly peaceful, but hunters could still encounter beasts, both human and otherwise, in their travels. The war had taken more, and likely still would. Still it ached, to lose a part of his family, even distant parts. And then, there was the death of their Keeper. 

The news sank into him like a hot stone, heavy and excruciating as it ripped through his heart and lungs. He closed his eyes and tried to breathe, Josephine’s sympathetic words falling distantly in the background. Then he composed himself, swallowing some of her lovingly steeped tea to quench the dryness in his throat, before he swiftly left and moved, trancelike, through the rest of his day. 

She had been the one who knew him best, encouraged his talents, raised him in their culture; the closest thing he’d known to a mother. The news had come in one official report and a hundred grieving, consoling letters. 

It was a small price to pay, perhaps, for the safety of the entire clan and the new alliances that had been forged. Clan Lavellan hadn’t only survived, but taken the city and reached agreement with the remaining nobles. They were governing now, in coalition with humans and elves from the city’s alienage. The Inquisition had helped to shape events, supporting the elves and ensuring that the clan emerged from the fighting, and despite the losses, his people were grateful. Still, he had been First, and now without their Keeper the clan was being led by their elders and warriors, and while the letters were gentle, there was expectation buried in the subtext.

All this, he opted to keep to himself. There was nothing he could do, save await the visit of an emissary that the clan would be sending in a few weeks time, and there was so much else to contend with in his role as Inquisitor. The people closest to him were already grieving and worried. Cassandra was still shaken by the revelations of the Fade, and investigation into her own order had begun to occupy much of her time. Many of his companions would be staying longer in the field, making up for his inability to be out sealing rifts by helping to fend off demons across Orlais. 

Hawke’s death weighed heavily on the fortress, and he could hide his extra grief in that without burdening anyone else. 

\---- 

Taren decided, once his breathing had settled back to a normal rate, to seek out Varric, even though the weight of his own responsibility for Madeline’s fate still hung heavy on his conscience. Varric didn’t blame him, of course, if anything he blamed Hawke’s impossibly reckless nature, and himself. But that didn’t mean Taren didn’t feel deeply sorry. 

Varric told him another tale, a story of Hawke’s protectiveness and tendency toward the violent, with that signature air of comedy, and Taren wrapped him into a hug, glad at least that he could be a friend, a comforting presence, just for a moment. 

“What about you, Inquisitor? How are you holding up?” Varric asked, echoing his own question from just moments before. 

Taren adjusted his weight, he had gone and found a real crutch as instructed, and his leg was now fitted into a more supportive brace than what had been fashioned for him on the road. 

“They tell me I’ll be fighting again in no time,” he managed a smile, “I’m lucky, really.” 

“That’s one way of putting it.” There was a dry sarcasm in Varric’s response. “I didn’t just mean battle scars though, Your Grace -”

“- Varric, please, we’ve been through this, I have a name.” 

“Don’t take it personally, I never call anyone by name.” Varric laughed, but his laugh seemed to have dried up. 

“A nickname, then.” Taren sighed, still feeling too graceless for a _“Your Grace”_. 

“Inquisitor suits you.” 

“Does it?”

Varric raised an eyebrow. 

“I’m sorry. I’ve just had a lot to think about lately.” Taren confessed with a slight shake of his head. He straightened his posture and managed to iron his frowning face back into something neutral. 

“Haven’t we all." More sarcasm, "but, Taren,” Varric paused, reaching up to pat his arm, “no one else could do the shit you do. Don’t let some demon asshole tell you any different.” Varric offered him another dry chuckle. Even beaten down, his voice was warm. 

“Thank you, that means a lot.” Taren worked his face back into something that felt like it might be a smile, already feeling guilty for clouding Varric’s head with any more troubles. 

Varric nodded and gave his arm another reassuring pat. 

“We should do something for Hawke, in her memory.” Taren suggested, bringing the subject back to something actionable. 

“Josephine’s put together some kind of memorial service at the Chantry for all our fallen…” Varric replied unenthusiastically. 

“I’m sure, but is a Chantry service what she would want? What about setting up something in the Tavern, once everyone is back?” 

Varric agreed, smiling at the suggestion. Even if it was still sad, it was genuine. 

\----

  
  


“Hello,” Dorian’s voice came singing out of the dim tavern light. He leaned over the table, a taunting smile on his face, “it’s a little early for this, don’t you think?” 

Leila was sitting at a corner table in a dusty upstairs section of the tavern, tucked in between the wall and the staircase, shaded from the sunlight that still came in through the tavern’s windows. She had a short glass of whiskey in front of her and a book in her lap, but she was equipped for a fight. 

“Not for me.” She replied shortly, without looking up. She had been awake for hours and hours, with nothing to do but read and brood. The drink was her self-given compensation. 

“Well to be honest I’m not one to judge, it isn’t for me either.” Dorian pulled a chair noisily over from a nearby table, and settled himself in across from her. 

Leila looked up from her book to watch him catch the eye of a tavern server and hand her too much money for anything the bar offered with a wink. A few minutes later the woman was back with a generous pour of something dark, in a glass much cleaner than the usual tavern glassware. He raised it with a slight nod and took a sip. 

“What do you want?” Leila sighed, closing the book and placing it on the table before taking up her own drink and glaring over the rim. 

“I haven’t seen you since we got back, I suppose I just wanted to make sure you were alright.” 

No one was alright, of course. It had been almost a week, and Skyhold was uncomfortably quiet. Most of the Inner Circle still weren’t back from the Approach. Cole was impossible to find, Varric was quiet, Cassandra was buried in paperwork and the Inquisitor seemed to have decided that while his leg healed, he would make a project of reading every report on every aspect of the Inquisition’s workings, twice. Even if Dorian was staying upstairs now, the Inquisitor didn’t exactly seem conversational. 

“Maybe I can buy you a drink. Is that such an imposition?” He flicked his eyes to her half empty glass as she set it down, and smirked. 

“Did the Inquisitor send you?” She asked with a sigh. She had expected a reprimand from Cassandra, not a drink from Dorian, but either way that had to be why. Dorian’s brow quirked in confusion, and he leaned a little closer. 

“No, why?” 

Leila cursed herself. Now she had to tell him. “I may have yelled at him.” She admitted reluctantly, and she took up her drink to finish it. 

“I assume you had a good reason for that.” Dorian took a drink too, letting his words settle in with their unamused expectation. 

She looked away. “Not really.” 

Dorian raised a hand to wave over the tavern woman again and slip her another excessive bit of coin. 

“So you’re not alright, then.” Dorian concluded as the woman left earshot, staring Leila down. 

“I never was, remember?” Leila huffed, and she tried to smirk over it. “I’ll be fine, really. Tell your beloved I’m sorry for what I said, too.”

The woman returned with their drinks, and Leila quickly took a gulp of hers, without waiting for Dorian’s usual courtesy raise of a glass. 

“If you came with a list of questions about the Fade shit though, you can forget it.” Leila swallowed another sip. 

Dorian sighed and took a small sip from his own drink. “Have it your way then.” 

Leila slowed down, a little, leaving her glass to fiddle idly with the fraying binds of her book. 

“Actually, I wanted to thank you.” Dorian admitted, and even though he could pull it off with gentlemanly charm, the words sounded hesitant and awkward in the air. 

“For what?”

“I know you healed his leg in the Fade.” Dorian explained, and his face looked almost worried, though he masked it behind a smile and another sip of his drink, “Those cuts were deep. If you hadn’t, he could have… it could have been much worse.” Dorian was almost never this tongue-tied, and Leila couldn’t help but remember some of her own panic at the whisper of Dorian’s fear. 

“You can thank yourself.” She said quickly, forgetting the book’s spine and retrieving her drink for another sip. 

“Oh that’s right. Well, you must be so very glad to know me.” Dorian’s voice sprang back into its usual tone of cheerful pride. 

Leila made an effort to roll her eyes, losing some of her venom in favour of sarcastic ribbing. “Are you really fishing that deep for a compliment?” 

Dorian smiled his gentleman’s smile, “no, I do mean it. I am glad you were there and I am quite glad you’re back.” 

Leila’s face reached an almost-genuine smile. She tilted her glass with a late gesture of good cheer before taking another sip. 

“And I want my earrings back,” Dorian continued with a flippant change of subject. “I know you have them, I saw you wearing them at the ball.” 

Leila rolled her eyes again, with more ease this time. “Didn’t think you’d even notice they were missing, _Sparkler_.” She smirked. “And they looked better on me.” 

“Fine, keep them, they’re yours. Now, can we go downstairs? It probably shames my patrician upbringing to say it, but I want to actually hear this music.” 

Maryden had just started a set, Leila could hear the jaunty sound of her singing over the murmur of an early dinner crowd below. 

“More like you want the next one she writes to be about you.” It wouldn’t be. Leila was fairly certain that she’d convinced the bard to write one about a pretty sparrow next, over their drinks together late the last few evenings. Since getting back, Leila had often found herself the first to arrive and last to leave from the tavern. Maryden had offered what were probably pity drinks, but drinks were drinks. 

Dorian rose from his seat and took up both his glass and Leila’s book. She followed him half reluctantly to a table on the main floor, but the place he settled on was at least a spot with its back to the wall, near the door. 

\----

Taren watched as Cassandra hung back in the war room, they had just concluded a meeting on next steps, organizing forces and scouts across new areas in Orlais. It had left Taren with a lot on his plate, enough to consider, research, and inform himself on while his leg healed and kept him confined to the fortress. Cassandra organised a collection of papers and a quill in front of herself at the table and leaned over them, explaining to Taren as she did that she had to write up a report of what had taken place in the Fade. 

“It does not come easily to me, as I am sure you can imagine.” A frown tugged at her mouth as she looked over what she had written previously. 

Taren offered to help, and soon they were both working to fit words to what they had seen. Taren could be articulate when he needed to be, but the questions Cassandra had weren’t easy to find the words for. She wondered about his faith, not like an Andrastian trying to fit him onto a pedestal or make him into an enemy, but as a friend, and a vulnerable one. Cassandra wasn’t quick to trust. They fought together, but she was professional and courteous, not friendly. Now, she talked more openly of her beliefs than she had ever offered to before, and listened more intently to his own reflections than he would have expected. 

Cassandra experienced it all differently. He couldn’t really fathom it, a belief so sure, but he recognized its importance. Where he found meaning in traditions and stories, in keeping knowledge alive to tie together his people, she looked directly to the heavens with her belief. Taren didn’t have faith like that, but what sense of the world he did have was shaken enough. The threat to the world and the power in his hands left him confused, determined, and full of questions that he tried to answer with books and scrolls. Cassandra, however, had always maintained her belief in the Maker’s involvement, though she took on the challenges thrown at them with admirable humility. Now, things were less certain, even where they had been far from it before. 

She didn’t fully approve of his sparing the Wardens, but she didn’t distrust his leadership, either. He asked, carefully, about her own nightmare experience, and she told him a little. Corruption, not just demonic but of everything worthy for which she tried to stand. The Seekers, the Chantry; she was a woman determined to stay vigilant, now more than ever. 

It seemed that though it was shaken, her faith was shaken into something stronger, forced on by a willingness to question and to change, all in the interest of becoming closer to her Maker’s vision. It wasn’t what Taren pictured when he thought of human piety, yet there it was. 

He was considering this philosophical wisdom with admiration when she interrupted his thought. 

“What?” Cassandra looked up from her papers, suddenly sounding self conscious. 

“You impress me, that’s all.” It wasn’t something Taren minded saying, but from the way she scoffed, Cassandra clearly wasn’t expecting to hear it. 

“I could say the same about you.” She said after a moment, “you make impossible choices, and always look for the fairest way forward. The things we are faced with are beyond anything I could have imagined, but we must fight them, and I find I am glad it is with you.” 

“That’s high praise.” Taren tried to accept it gracefully, as it was given, but he hadn’t expected to be on the receiving end of genuine compliments, either. 

“Can I ask you, what do you believe now?” Cassandra turned her attention fully from the papers and onto him. 

“Creators, if I knew that…” Taren shook his head, “I suppose now I believe that I know less than I ever have.” He echoed some of her own admittance in his answer, but it was still true. “I... my faith was never like yours Cassandra, so certain, so...literal.” He hesitated in the explanation; how could he explain a lack of belief amid a faith that still wrapped itself into every aspect of his identity? “But even still, I suppose some part of me had hoped there was a...reason.” He flexed his left hand, feeling conscious of the anchor even though it wasn’t troubling him. “Right now I just want to get back on my feet and give the thinking a rest, honestly.”

Cassandra laughed dryly, “I know exactly what you mean.” 

\----

Solas returned from the Approach a few days after the Inquisitor’s party, joined by some scouts and bearing newly uncovered artifacts. Taren added the reports on their findings to his pile of reading materials for the day, and asked Solas to walk with him on the battlements to discuss what had happened in the Fade. As usual, the conversation began amiably enough. Solas was interested and insightful when it came to the discussion of fear demons and the possible spirit of the Divine Justinia appearing in the fade, and Taren could tell he wished he could have seen it all himself. But as the discussion turned toward the political side of the Inquisition’s presence in Orlais, Solas’ questions seemed to be asked more harshly. 

“I’m surprised at your decisions in Orlais.” Solas finally expressed with a discontented air. He was rarely unkind, and he was clearly trying to keep his disapproval polite. 

“You mean disappointed.” Taren pointed out the obvious regardless, honesty was just easier. 

“Did I say that?” Solas countered with an easy argument, “it is your prerogative to lead your organization how you will.” 

His organization. A fundamental fallacy. “It isn’t _mine_.” Taren asserted, trying to right a misconception as much as will the idea into truth. It shouldn’t be his, not his alone. “The Inquisition is literally thousands of people now.” 

“None of them are Inquisitor.”

Lucky them, but the argument had made its point. Taren sighed. “Just tell me what you think, we both know you’re going to.” He prompted the conversation on, if it was his organization, it wouldn’t be without council. 

“Very well, I was surprised to see you support Empress Celene.” Solas began, stopping to lean against the battlement walls. It was always cool in the mountains, but this morning brought with it a particularly chill breeze and clear blue skies. The sun reflected off the bright stone of Skyhold’s walls and the dusting of snow that still stuck to some of the grass below, but in Solas’ company the air was warmer, and Taren could feel the familiar pull of magic in the air. He found himself not for the first time wondering at Solas’ use of magic, he seemed to work it into everything. 

“I supported peace, or tried to.” Taren responded to the curious look Solas was pointing at him. 

“And I commend you for unveiling so much corruption, the idea of a truce is an honorouble one, even if it may not last.” Solas offered him a gentle nod and an approving smile, “I am surprised, Inquisitor, not disapproving. Do her politics not bother you?” 

Taren shot Solas a skeptical look of his own. “You mean her treatment of the elves. Purging Halamshiral’s alienages? It more than bothers me.” He said stiffly. Celene had done monstrous things to retain her power in Orlais, and he had read as many of the tedious missives as the Inquisition had access to in his quest to orient himself around Orlesian politics, without any of it tempering his disgust at those events. 

“Forgive me for asking then, though the Dalish aren’t known for their sympathy toward lesser elves.” Solas seemed to ignore his stiffness on the subject, and the probing remark felt accusatory in its ignorance.

“Lesser?” He repeated the word without masking his offence. Under the weight in his heart, his emotions felt raw. Every duty and concern was balanced on the edge of a knife, constantly being poked forward by the usual marvelling looks and hushed comments that followed him around Skyhold. He made a conscious effort to relax his jaw, perhaps political discussion with Solas wasn’t the wisest idea. 

“Isn’t that the prevailing sentiment among your people, that only the Dalish represent the true Elvhen people?” Solas continued to offend him, though he did it with apparently sincere innocence. 

“I don’t believe that it is, no.” He said shortly. “And even if it were, I would have expected that you knew _me_ better than that, at least.” He never would get used to talking to another elf, in Elvhen no less, without finding any mutual understanding around it. 

“Of course, I did not mean to offend. Again, I don’t disapprove, I am merely surprised.” Solas sounded apologetic, at least. Taren let the slight slide with a nod, relaxing his jaw the rest of the way. “But the fact remains that you let the Empress retain her power.” Solas finished, and his look was curious again, less accusatory. 

“As opposed to allowing her to die?” He said it like a reminder: none of the options had seemed particularly good or fair. 

“Would it have been so difficult? Once you had the information, you could have chosen to do nothing.” Solas continued casually, curiosity still driving his speech. 

“Watch a woman be stabbed in the back right in front of me? Unravel the web of lies behind it all and do nothing? No, _I_ couldn’t have.” Another reminder. Taren crossed his arms. 

“I see.” Solas seemed unaffected by Taren’s bristling, like he was storing the information away for a report. 

“I hope you do.” Taren sighed, was it his authority that made Solas so quick to press his beliefs, or his Dalishness? “I may not like Celene, or any of them, but Orlais’ best chance is united.” He spoke his final word on it calmly, with sureness. 

Solas seemed satisfied with the answer, and they began to walk again, turning to enter the fortress at the library. Taren followed Solas down to the rotunda where he studied, hobbling a little on the stairs. He stopped to admire the artworks on the walls as they entered. A new piece had been started, outlines of a stylized Grey Warden crest and the Empress with her hidden assassin. 

“You put a great deal of faith in people. I can’t help but wonder if they deserve it.” Solas remarked, watching him take in the Grey Wardens’ fresco. 

“Should I put my faith in something else?” Taren replied with a slight shrug. 

“Customarily, your people would put their faith in the gods.” Solas pressed with a more teasing air this time, friendly even if he was still toeing a line of offensive assumption.

“They deserve it much less.” Taren remarked with another shrug. 

“Oh? Not the words I’d expect from a First.” 

Taren turned from the mural to look at Solas, who still appeared innocent in his tiresome outlook. 

“You seem to have rather a lot of expectations of me.” He replied, and his tone fell flat, though he didn’t mean for it to. Every word out his mouth felt flat, these days. Like something had tied up his voice to the back of his throat and anything that got through had to be pushed out with such effort that by the time words emerged they were different, colder.

Solas regarded him with an analytical stare. “I did not mean to offend.” He offered the same apologetic promise once more, though his voice retained its note of curiosity. 

Taren leaned on his crutch more heavily than was likely recommended, “don’t worry, I’m used to it.” He tried to sound reassuring and a little more honest, a little more like himself. “We Firsts generally are.” He almost managed a chuckle, and Solas noticed how it failed, falling half-hearted and odd in the air between them. He raised an eyebrow. 

“I seem to have poked at something sore.” Solas lowered his tone, jumping from arrogantly adversarial to something still curious, but gentle. “What troubles you, lethalin?” 

Such an odd thing, hearing familiar words through unfamiliar accents and from an unmarked face, but he appreciated the declaration of friendship regardless. An argument of arrogant intellects could be respected, among friends. Taren felt some more of the tension he hadn’t fully known he was holding be released; a relaxation of his tense left hand, a sigh of air through his nose. 

“It all does.” He admitted, keeping his deepest truths for himself still, “maybe if I believed like Cassandra does it would be easier, but all the madness just seems nonsensical...all this death, for power and godhood...” He stopped, waving a lazy hand in the air with a slow shake of his head, turning again to look around at the murals of the rotunda. 

“You don’t believe in the elven gods?” Solas sounded surprised, and his question pressed eagerly again. 

Taren just shrugged. “Maybe they were gods and maybe they weren’t, I thought it didn’t _matter_.”

Solas’ eye was on his face, on the tattoos he used to be able to forget adorned it. “You seem very dedicated to the gods, for someone who does not believe.” 

“I’m dedicated to the People.” Even that felt like a lie, now. “Our stories are important, our traditions and our way of life. After everything the Chantry has done to the Dalish, of course I want to protect our beliefs, our history.” 

He had given this speech before, though not in defence of his disbelief. He used to say that the Dalish needed Keepers who dared to question and learn, that keeping the faith alive only mattered if scholarship of it was kept alive too. He used to study with storytellers and teachers, Keepers and Firsts from other clans. He used to seek out retellings of the same stories, to find out what was different, to try to decipher what was true. Now, with the threat of Corypheus and his empty Black City, with belief set at his own feet, he had new questions and new fears. What _was_ a god? Was it safe to worship anything at all? 

“But it’s symbolism and metaphor,” he continued the speech, the one he used to use to explain how old tales should be interpreted carefully, “what was real isn’t as important as what we do with those beliefs now.” 

“June and Elgar’nan, and more than that, I imagine,” Solas' eye fell over Taren’s neck and exposed arms, decorated in winding rivers of ink. “Is it not true that the Dalish use these symbols to declare their devotion to their chosen gods?” Solas asked carefully, “why cover yourself in their symbols, if not as a declaration of your worship?”

“I chose them to honour my parents.” Taren explained, and feeling a little more generous, he continued. “Our valaslin, our blessings and ceremonies, they connect us to each other as much as to the gods.” He touched his hand to his face, tracing the outline of June’s symbol over his cheek, and the sprawling vines of Elgar’nan’s as they overlapped. “It isn’t uncommon to choose a design that connects one to family. As for the rest,” he dropped his hand, holding up his right arm and turning it to allow the bit of tattoo which poked out from under his rolled up shirtsleeves to catch in the light, “they’re admittedly less than traditional, but they tell a story of their own.” 

“And what story is that?” Solas examined the tails of vines exposed on Taren’s bicep, if one looked closely between the leaves and spiraling lines, more symbols could be found in the open spaces.

Taren looked around the room once more, eyes moving slowly over the painted walls and planned outlines of illustrations yet to be. “Mine.” 

“Fascinating, I can’t imagine it has been easy to break from tradition as you do.” Solas commented, eyes still curiously pressing into the skin of his arm. 

“I’d hardly be the first.” Taren shrugged, “you think us hard, Solas, isolated and ignorant of the world. Some of us are. A good Keeper has to understand the importance of keeping the clan’s ways safe, while still understanding that we’re a part of the world, too. Some focus only on protecting tradition.”

“But not you.” 

“I’m not a Keeper… I may never be. But no, not me.” Taren frowned, it seemed there was no getting away from the subject of his dashed expectations and disrupted future. 

“You have certainly given me something to think about.” Solas’ admittance brought him back to focus. “The Dalish have lost something truly special in you.” He finished admiringly. 

Taren shook his head. “That’s just the point, I’m not special.” He said quickly, “and they haven’t lost me.” 


	24. Bedhead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally an update. I was meaning to write a couple of companion quests, but haven't felt like it. This is where the heart of the story is anyway, maybe I'll get to them some day.

"Mm," the sound Dorian's waking mind made in response to Taren's movement beside him was muffled by pillows at his lips. With eyes still closed he turned his head to breathe in the scent of Taren's hair, and found it brushing up against his lips, wisping as it did in light, messy locks over Taren's neck. Dorian shifted a little closer, hooking an arm around his torso and pulling Taren's body up against his so that he could feel the bones of his hips press against the curve of his back. His hands clutched over his chest and then seemed naturally to drift downward, pulling his torso into place. It fit so perfectly there, pressed snugly up against his own. He leaned his head in and pushed his lips through that soft cloud of tickling, lightly pine-scented hair until they found purchase at the base of his neck, and the kiss he left there fell out of him like instinct, barely conscious and utterly natural. 

"Soft." Another murmur from his still mostly-slumbering mind tumbled out of his mouth as he nudged the delicate locks aside, as he brought a hand up to brush his fingers over the smooth section of hair that had been shaved close and patterned for the ball in Orlais. That night seemed oddly far away now, and Taren hadn't tended to the intricate hairstyle whatsoever, but the soft fuzz left there betrayed the shortness of time, and Dorian could still feel the light bumps of texture under the stroke of his thumb, playing at his fingertips like embossed velvet. 

Taren responded to his sleepy mutterings with one of his own.

"Hmm?"   
  
It came with the inflection of a question, as he turned his face and shook the loose hair from where it draped over his forehead and eyes. 

"Your hair is so soft." Dorian muttered the explanation into his neck, his nose still poking through some of it. Soft. 

He felt Taren's laugh rising up through the warm neck under his lips, lightly shaking the body his arms were hung around. The movements pulled him just a little closer to wakefulness, and a little farther away from the uninhibited musings of sleep. He was doing that thing again, he realised as he opened an eye and started to allow daylight and reality to float in, that _unguarded_ thing. Waking up drooling and even a little sweaty - ungroomed, half naked - in another man's bed, mumbling inarticulate compliments about the softness of hair. No wonder Taren was laughing. 

"Thank you," Taren replied between chuckles. He turned, breaking from the secure mould Dorian had made for him only to press himself back into place, his hands finding their way into his hair now, as though to compare their morning states of unkempt. 

"Good morning." 

Dorian opened his other eye as Taren's fingers delicately swept some of his own hair off his forehead, and as he came into focus, so did his thoughts. Mostly, they were pleasant; grateful observations on Taren's full lips and bright eyes, and a more fully conscious appreciation of how _good_ his body felt, still connected to him from belly to thigh, how comfortable. A leg shifted to wrap itself over one of his, and he couldn't help but smile. But there was another thought, too, worming it's way uninvited into the forefront of his mind: the nagging little voice that berated him for his naivety in being kept so close - in being seen and held and woken up with in such an unmanicured state. For a second, his blissful morning was soured by the thought that he shouldn't really be there at all, but that he should have at least risen a little earlier, and fixed his hair. 

His hair. It was getting long too, going uncared for as it had on the extended trips across the demon-ridden and war torn regions of the south. There was no one to cut hair in Skyhold - at least, no one he'd trust. For one entirely unsympathetic reason, he was beginning to regret not joining Taren on his recent excursion to free the man formerly known as Blackwall from a Val Reauex prison: it would have provided an opportunity to seek out a proper barber. He kept that thought neatly to himself; southerners never seemed to understand the importance of a well-styled appearance.

Taren's hair tickled his nose again as he nestled deeper into the embrace, and he let his vanity fall aside without even trying to, though that little voice insisted on whispering a new question into his collection of lovestruck anxieties. How might Taren perceive his close attention to appearance? Would he find it tiresome, once the novelty of it all wore off? _Look at you_ , it seemed to say, _you're being vain, and you aren't even doing it well_. Taren's approach, of course, seemed only to be to keep himself cleaned and sweet smelling, without a single care being given to the rest. It suited him, but there seemed to Dorian to be a certain bravery to that which he did not possess. 

But here he was, unkempt and drowsy, spending another morning where he shouldn't, waking within arms reach of the thing he had told himself he wasn't allowed to have. His hair was long, and without creams or pomades to keep it in check, and Taren was pushing it out if his eyes, and he was feeling a strangely comfortable uncomfortableness with all of it. Taren's lips met his forehead, and the voice reminding him that this was a perilous position to be in quieted a little more. 

"Good morning." He returned the greeting as he let his fingers fall through Taren's hair and graze the length of his smooth cheek, taking the moment to study the little straw coloured flecks that sparkled in the mossy green of his eyes. Dorian leaned in, pulling Taren's chin gently with one hand and his waist in tight with the other, and kissed him deeply, morning breath be damned. Taren returned the kiss, and he eagerly invited the quickening of his heart that came with it, falling into the all-encompassing sensation of warmth that drove away all his other cares. He let his mind go back to being mostly unconscious, let it go on with uninhibited wanting and appreciation for the softness of hair, of lips, of warm skin on his. His hands moved and he kissed and kissed and rolled Taren over him and pulled and felt and squeezed. Waking up where he shouldn't, doing that unguarded thing with his thoughts and feelings and actions, keeping the day away for just a minute longer. And Taren kissed him back, dug his hands into his back and squeezed himself into it with his eyes closed and his breath quick, until he didn't. Two blinks, and a sigh.

Taren was positioned over him when he stopped, blankets tangled about his ankles and morning sun glowing through his wild hair. Dorian's hands were at his waist, poised to become more than just gentle guides for his hips - ready to reprise the passion of the previous night. Taren rolled off of him, slowing things down with a quick run of his fingers through his hair, which smoothed under them but sprang back in all directions as soon as they were through. Some of the curls broke apart with his fingers, and if anything the mess only grew from the attempted taming. He moved to sit up, looking away with an expression Dorian couldn't read, but kept his legs wound over his. 

Dorian sat up too, staying close and planting a few more kisses onto his shoulder and neck as he did, then taking his own hands up to the soft tangles sprouting from Taren's head. 

"Sorry, I... um -" Taren gave his head a shake and flashed Dorian half a smile, one that was still lopsided and warm, but sad at the edges. He wondered which weight was holding it down - there were plenty to choose from - but commented on the hair instead. He patted down a lock that had gone particularly upright, tucking it carefully behind his ear and regarding the rest with a smile that bordered on laughing. 

Taren caught his amused look and the smile seemed to rise just a little higher. He grabbed a few more locks from their stray places and tried to find them homes behind his ears, but they didn't stay. Dorian chuckled. 

"What - why, what does it look like?" Taren was back to speaking through quiet laughter, and he leaned his shoulder into Dorian's. 

"Magnificent." Dorian replied, meaning it. Chunks of hair in all directions, some lumped to the side in a cloud of not-quite curls, and some smoothed into a crushed, bent fold where his head had pressed it into his pillow overnight. Some shorter pieces near his forehead stood straight up in little spirals, and the whole coiffure had no discernible part to it, with sections tossed this way and that. It was wild, hilarious in a way and unbearably sexy in another. 

"Sometimes I think I should cut it all off." Taren joked, pulling it all back now. With a few quick flicks of his hands he'd wrangled it into a thick braid, the ends of which still splayed out in haphazard curls and waves, but of a more orderly sort. The short pieces that didn't make it still stuck up, but for the most part the wildness had been tamed. 

"Don't you dare." Dorian tugged gently at the braid, pushing Taren's head toward his own for another kiss. The kiss that Taren returned was full and warm, but as he pulled away the edges of his mouth were reluctant again. Dorian frowned. "Something on your mind, Inquisitor?" He said it teasingly, hoping for an eye-roll and a playful reprimand, instead he received another sigh. 

"Just a lot of work to do."

Maybe bringing the title into the picture was the wrong choice, as Taren seemed now even more ready to jump up and begin his usual unceasing bustle about the fortress. 

"Of course, no rest for the wicked." Dorian kept his tone teasing, and nipped at his neck with sensual emphasis for _wicked_. 

Taren didn't take to the opportunity, however, and shuffled his legs out and his body up into still more of an upright seat. He kissed Dorian tenderly, once on the cheek and then softly on the lips. 

"I have to get going." He said apologetically, something dark and unreadable again behind his eyes. Dorian ceased his attempts at temptation with that and let him rise, watching him as he made his way to the folded piles of clothes on his dresser and hastily threw some on. The drab beiges and browns of wool and leather were a disappointing sight after the glow of tan skin and artful tattoos, but he tried not to let it show on his face. 

"If you ever take a break, you know where to find me." He said, trying to sound casual despite the flutter of his heart. The rejection felt shattering in a way that was utterly unreasonable and almost certainly unfair, but the sneering little voice that had been silenced under soft messy hair and impulsive kisses was screaming at him now, and it was all he could do to keep it from biting into the tone of his speech as he tried to say something gentlemanly and take his leave. 

_It isn't that,_ he told himself once he'd settled into his own work in a quiet alcove of the library, carrying on a debate with the suspicious voice in his head that insisted that whatever was wrong, he must surely be the cause. It had taken him the better part of the morning to weed out his selfish reactions from the truth. There was plenty to choose from besides his breath or hair or his being an Altus, plenty to worry an Inquisitor which had nothing at all to do with him. The most genuine person he had ever met was telling him that it was the _work_ , and who was he to make it all about himself, anyway? He sighed, rereading a sentence in the dusty tome before him for the seventeenth time, words tangling about like Taren's morning hair. Hair that was messy and soft and sexy and wild, but wilder, he knew, because of how he had spent his night tossing and turning in his sleep, restless with some nightmare that crept into their bed even after he woke. 

He shook his head at the jumbled words and runes that refused to make sense before him, letting the unhelpful little voice get one last word in. _You are good for sex and excitement, not this_ , it said. _You have never opened your heart to anyone, why should he trust you?_


	25. Duty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Changing the description of this fic to "lots of romance, sometimes I forget there's a plot." 
> 
> Taren is stuck at Skyhold with his thoughts, Dorian wants to help.

Now that he was back at Skyhold, with access to healers and every potion ingredient he could hope for, Taren’s leg was healing quickly. After a week, he could walk about the fortress again without crutches, though he had been rather pointedly told that running and jumping and climbing were still out of the question, and fighting even more so. He was, as a result, finding it particularly hard to occupy his mind with enough to do. He busied himself with War Council meetings and research, and with returning the correspondence of the many letters from his clan and from the nobles of Wycome that had arrived. There was brief reprieve with the predicament of Blackwall, but a short trip to Val Royeaux, where the public eye fell on him intense and heavy, had hardly been calming. 

He was still treating his own troubles like a secret, and allowing the whole matter to feel a little less real in the process. Only his advisors knew of the Keeper's death, and despite her words of concern he had instructed Josephine to keep the information private. Though, of course, one could not keep secrets from Cole. The spirit had been to see him with a sympathetic look and a bundle of Deshanna’s favourite flowers, and Taren had done his best to make him understand his desire for some peace with his own thoughts. Cole entreated him to openness with words about healing and care, but they rang empty. Healing and care were needed - for his leg, for Skyhold, and for all those troops and mages wounded in the assault on Adamant fortress - and it was his job to be the strong face that stood at the front, not to hide his face in mourning. But as his leg healed and another week went by, he found himself itching to be able to get out again, to do something useful. 

In all of this, Dorian was one bright spot. He had begun spending his evenings upstairs in Taren’s chambers, sleeping in his bed, waking him with smiles and gentle kisses. He still insisted on tracking the progress of Taren’s healing, and Taren often caught the mage looking after him with worry, uncertainly prodding him toward light topics of conversation and sex that was passionate and distractingly incredible. Taren didn’t want to burden this budding feeling of stability between them with more woe, but he found it hard to stay present, and he filled his days with as many duties and errands as his still aching leg would allow. Still, in the evenings he could not always escape Dorian’s concern. 

“You went into the fade? Actually, physically there? That is utterly remarkable!” Had been Dorian’s first reaction to the full story of what had happened in the abyss, some days after their return. “I wish I could have been there.” He had lamented, turning to Taren with a dramatic pout. 

“I don't.” Taren had replied, grimacing at the thought. “Let you near more magical insanity? I don't like it for anyone, being sucked into danger like that by all this. Least of all for you.” 

“You're very sweet. And for the record, I don't like it for you much either.” Dorian had told him with blushing care as he glanced at Taren’s braced leg. “Still, I wish I _had_ been there.”

He hadn’t asked, yet, after Taren’s mood, but he had been asking about the visions in the fade in tentative tones, and more than once in the nights that passed Taren woke to his gentle shaking, stirring him out of unpleasant dreams. The truth was that he thought often about the nightmare the demon had stuck him in, powerless and paralyzed against the end of the world. As though he had needed the reminder. 

Scouting missions and soldiers sent their reports to Cullen and Leliana, but as long as he was stuck in Skyhold, he would involve himself as much as he could in the oversight of those affairs. There were builders to instruct on the creation of a mage tower, and artifacts to analyse alongside Solas - a pleasant task because in doing it, neither of them tended to speak much. The quiet taking of notes and total involvement of his mind in the study of ancient magic was familiar, and easy to lose an afternoon to. Then there were the meetings which Josephine had arranged for him. These were less pleasant, but they consumed his thoughts just as well - names and titles to remember, mannerisms to keep. Josephine had offered to cancel them all, and instead he had insisted that she fill his schedule up with any act of diplomacy that was needed. It was better than doing nothing, and at worst his dealings with snide aristocrats would give him something _else_ to be angry about, something that burned a little less. 

One other letter had come to him since the fall into the fade, one that on its surface seemed innocuous and even kind. Not the delivery of painful news nor demands from political powers, but a letter from his clan that told him his mourning would not have to be done alone - that the clan still needed him and thought of him, that his family that remained was there to love him. The clan, long overdue for confirmation of the rumours concerning his _magic hand_ , would be sending along someone to meet with him in a diplomatic gesture that would require no memorization of frivolous ceremonies or complicated titles. The only issue with the letter was in _who_ the clan had elected to send.

> Lethalin, 
> 
> You have not forgotten us, and we have not forgotten you. The clan has asked me to speak for us, but only because they can’t have you. Still, it always was me who took charge of our games when we were children, wasn’t it? I’m sorry I haven’t written to you until now, but know you have been in my thoughts. With a new one here I’ve been thinking more and more about childhood. Bereth calls it sentimental, but I know you’d understand. Eirlana insisted on sending you one of her drawings. The twins talk about you all the time, they miss you. We all do. Bereth might call me sentimental, but you are always in his prayers. I wish I could come to see you, but now that we have the city, and I have little Ghilana, I am needed here. Thank you for the letter you sent, we hung the runes you drew over her crib. We’ve taken a home in the city, and there is room to spare. I hope you will come and meet your newest niece when this is all over.
> 
> Your Inquisition troops were remarkably good-natured, for shemlin. They respect you, and those who have met you say you are kind. I’m glad to hear you haven’t changed. Everywhere, people are worried. Even your soldiers sometimes look up at the hole in the sky as though they are sure it will swallow us all, but you have my faith, lethalin. And you had Deshanna’s, right until the end. 
> 
> The new coalition of the Lavellan-Wycome government was determined to send an ambassador and a portion of the spoils of our victory, so I’ve sent Bereth to your Skyhold. He loves you, you know. He hopes to bring you back to us when this Inquisition business is done, and so do I. 
> 
> _Mythal ma enaste._ Be safe, old friend. 
> 
> Sulahnna

She wrote with feeling. Better with words than he had ever been, and they hit him in ways both soothing and hard. The time he had spent away from his people now felt like a lifetime, and the duties he once had were now written over with new and bloody threats. After the conclave, he should have returned, but now he was _this_ , and though Deshanna was dead, he couldn’t bring himself to feel that she was _gone_ \- nor to grapple with the fact that whatever that should have meant for the course of his life, it had passed him by. 

He hadn’t been there. He _wouldn’t_ be there, not like he should be. And of all the people to explain that to, it would have to be _Bereth._ He started a page to write her back, but at the end of each new day it remained blank. 

\----

Dorian didn’t share Taren’s restlessness. He wasn’t entirely unhaunted by nightmares, but nights spent in Taren’s quarters provided him with some of the best sleep he had ever had. He spent his extra energy on training with Leila, the two constantly coming up with new and dangerous ways to utilize Dagna’s enchanting skills. She, just like Taren, had become more closed-off since the return, and he was hardly the right person to entice her to open up. So with his friend - just as with his lover - he settled into the role of careful distraction. They mastered new attacks, broadening Leila’s arsenal to include lightning spells and electrified daggers, and kept conversations to matters of trivial gossip and mutual mockery. Often, Leila would leave him to spend her evenings at the Herald’s Rest, and Dorian would return to the library in hopes that Taren might finally pause to _sit down_ for a moment, and join him in the place he now thought of as _theirs_.

When Taren finally did approach the crowded little alcove in which Dorian had saved him his usual seat, it was well after dark. He came bouncing up the steps with no less speed than he had first thing that morning, and every time since then - back and forth around the fortress, from the library to the aviary and down to the dungeons, flagrantly ignoring any decent healer’s advice to stay off his blighted leg. When he sat down, he sat heavily, letting out a long sigh that betrayed his waning energy, even if his left hand still fidgeted in stray locks of his hair. 

“Inquisitor,” Dorian addressed him with a curt nod and a warm smile, as he raised a hand up to calm Taren’s fiddling, and stroked the hair Taren had pulled from his braid back behind his ear. 

Taren stopped, looking at Dorian in mild surprise, and breathed out another sigh. The thoughtful and far-away look in his eyes cleared up for a moment, and his shoulders dropped as he leaned into Dorian’s hand by his face. Then Taren settled into his seat, quickly turning his attention from Dorian and toward the books that were set out on the table in front of him, though he kept his body leaned in close as he did. Dorian placed a gentle hand on his thigh and leaned over the books too, while he kept his eyes on Taren’s face. 

“We could simply find somewhere more comfortable,” he suggested in a low murmur, “work this all out in the morning.” 

Taren ignored the suggestion, his eyes scanning the texts on the table with interest. 

“Tell me what you found.” He said, as his hand found the one Dorian had rested on his thigh and held it. 

This was perhaps the most frustrating thing about Taren in recent days, the way that he had not exactly ceased to show affection, but was somehow keeping himself from becoming distracted, even when he was clearly in need of it. 

Dorian told him about the translations he was working on, and Taren listened studiously, asking compelling questions and building on the theories Dorian presented. He would have much rather taken Taren by the hand and dragged him behind a bookcase, forgetting the arcane puzzles in lieu of finding forbidden pleasure together like he was living out a fantasy from his boarding school days, but Taren simply kept working, gently holding his hand. To his greater frustration, the questions and comments Taren added to the discussion were _smart_ , and Dorian found himself being drawn back into the work he had hours ago grown weary of. He prided himself on his academic success, but his work ethic paled in comparison to the Inquisitor’s. Had they been in school together, Dorian thought, they might have been rivals. 

But they weren’t rivals, they were… well, they were holding hands. And Taren needed to take a break, and Dorian was his self-appointed distraction. He simply needed to work a little harder at it. 

“So, how was your day?” When there was finally a pause in Taren’s analysis, Dorian pointed the friendly question at him with a meaningful look, and frowned as Taren responded with another sigh and a halfhearted shrug. 

“That bad?” He pushed for a little more, slipping his hand away from Taren’s to once again gently caress his thigh. “How’s the leg?” He asked more pointedly still, as Taren’s mouth dipped deeper into its frown. 

“It’s fine.” Taren said flatly. Dorian kept his eyes locked on Taren’s until he looked away, not for the first time struggling to read what wasn’t being said in them. “ _I’m_ fine,” Taren insisted as his eyes darted back to the open books, “but if one more person calls me _Herald of Andraste_ I might shoot a fireball through the roof.” The corner of Taren’s mouth edged up into a forced smile.

It wasn’t like him to be this impenetrable - the very thing that made Taren remarkable was his _openness_ , his ability to just lay out his thoughts and feelings freely. He had been the one to drag Dorian into the realm of caring, after all. It didn’t really work, Dorian found himself grumbling inwardly, the other way around. He took the attempt at humour and chuckled along, closing the books and beginning to stack up papers as he tutted a sarcastic response. 

“It won’t help, trust me.” He commented, and was relieved to see Taren lean back and let him clear the table of work, the smile on his face losing some of its stiffness. “Though a drink might.” 

“I should really -” Taren began to protest with some other task that he in no way needed to be doing, and Dorian raised a hand to stop him. 

“I’ve just about had it with you.” He scolded, leaning in to plant a kiss on the line of his too-stiff jaw, then taking Taren’s hand in his again as he stood, and levelling him with a commanding look. “Come on.” 

\----

Taren allowed himself to be led into the tavern and toward the central table where a number of his companions were already engaged in drinking games and boisterous conversation. He noted Sera and Leila there, seemingly enjoying the company of the newly-returned Iron Bull and his mercenaries with full mugs of ale and scattered cards between them. 

He had lied about his leg. It ached with each step over the hard stones of the fortress, and while he knew it was unwise to keep on running about the place without rest, each time he stopped he found his mind flooded with worries for which he had no solutions. Getting drunk didn’t seem like it would be of much help either, especially given his tendency to simply spill out all his feelings unprompted once the alcohol had him under its influence. So as they entered the tavern, Taren set his mind to some of his other worries, managing to turn socialization into an act of duty in order to keep his focus off himself. 

It was remarkably easy, in fact, to find other things to worry about. He worried about Leila, who had begun to ingratiate herself to the others with her playful outspokenness, but since their return had all but disappeared into the shadows, coming out only to train - working too hard, like himself - or to argue, drunk. Something about her nightmare in the fade had put her on edge, made her fighty like he hadn't seen since her arrival. He watched her closely as she exchanged jovial insults with Sera that were maybe not quite jovial enough. 

He worried about Varric, who was conspicuously missing from the usual gang of gamblers. When Hawke had been at Skyhold, the two had set up shop in the Tavern, but now he avoided the place entirely, and confined himself mainly to his own room. Taren had spoken with him again when they had travelled to Val Royeaux to free Blackwall - now Thom - and though he had offered sympathetic commentary, he'd looked tired.

Taren worried too for Sera, who had joined them on that trip, lifting spirits on the way there with her freely-given crass opinions, but going quiet as the truth was revealed. She and Blackwall had seemed to have grown close, and Taren concerned himself with the state of that friendship on the grounds that team dynamics were an element of his responsibilities as a leader. Thom Rainier, as he would now be known, hadn’t returned to Skyhold following his pardon. Instead, Taren had given him leave to set out with Cassandra on a mission. Thom had been eager to do more to redeem himself, and Cassandra wouldn’t allow him from her sight. 

These thoughts of course led nicely into worrying about both Cassandra and Thom, and every earth-shattering discovery they could be making about the Seekers while they were away. And about the Grey Wardens, and the fallout of his decisions at Adamant, and everything else. 

Usually when he worried like this, Cole would pop up to say something eerily soothing, but lately the helpful spirit had been quiet. Looking up to the darkened corners on the upper floor of the Tavern, Taren strained to see or sense him. Cole still offered his help and left his little gifts scattered about, but he had begun to tremble with worries of his own. Dangerous worries, for which Solas was working to find a cure. These things were vital, and putting them first left little time for any other unpleasantness.

Finally, though he tried not to let them, his worries also turned toward Dorian, who he couldn't keep leaving at arms length, but couldn't quite bring himself to reach for. It wasn't like him to keep secrets, but every time he came close to spilling out what clouded his dreams, something pressed the words back into him. Coming too close to the thoughts made him feel numb and hollow, as well as altogether selfish. There simply wasn't time to stop and wait for the universe to breathe life back into him, so he didn't stop. He told Dorian that he was fine, and rather than grieving properly he pressed his grief into the shape of all his _duties,_ perhaps in hope that in performing them perfectly, some of the pressure might let up. When he caught Dorian giving him one of his searching looks, he would let him listen to small frustrations and confide some of his grander concerns - myths and gods, the truths they could discover about the ancient world, and what to do with them; things that were important, but long-ago and existential. Dorian's eyes lit up at new discoveries, and the idea of standing against demon-gods did seem s little less wild after hours spent picking apart the enemy's origins, but mostly the grand perspective helped to keep the heavy things he wasn't ready to lift far away.

Some of this redirection he did on purpose, a deliberate act that gave him someone to be so that he could get through the days and do what needed doing. The rest though, happened unconsciously. The dam in his heart that kept the pain from flooding in had been built a very long time ago, and it had been running on it's own - shutting out anything that would keep him from moving - since the day he woke with glowing cracks in his hand.

Dorian pulled at his left hand, calling out in an energized greeting as they approached the table. Sera, of all people, jumped up to offer him a seat and fetch drinks. Apparently, she had won a round or two at whatever game she had invented for the table, and was in a good mood. 

“How’s the leg, Inkybits?” She asked in a happy slur after toasting a drink to his arrival. Taren took a small sip from the ale she had supplied him with and shrugged. 

“Good enough.” He insisted, trying to sound happy about it. The response seemed to satisfy, but she still insisted on giving him the last remaining chair, while she pulled a wobbly stool closer to the table for herself. 

The Iron Bull downed his enormous draught and launched into a thrilling retelling of his and the Chargers’ most recent demon-killing exploits, while certain members of his party interjected to dispute the wilder claims. Sera leaned in, drunkenly nursing her ale and laughing loudly at every one of Bull's loud, expletive-laden exclamations.

Taren drank enough to feel a warmth rising in his cheeks, and tried to comply with Dorian’s obvious desire for him to relax by focusing on the sounds of the tavern music. Some soldiers with instruments had joined Maryden for the evening, adding lively fiddles and imperfect but loud singing to the tunes she spun. The music picked up, Bull finished his story to uproarious laughter, and Taren wondered why no one was dancing. He finished his drink in one fell swig. His cheeks reddened, his mind fuzzed a little more, the music swelled, and he jumped up.

"Sera!" He exclaimed, grabbing her by the arm. She turned to him mid-laugh. "Come on, I want to show you something!" He pulled her, stumbling, off of her stool.

“Show me - didn’t you _just_ bust that leg?” Sera eyed him suspiciously as he pulled her to her feet, but she was the one to stumble, not him. 

“It’s fine and I’ll prove it,” Taren retaliated, as he took her hands at arms length and initiated the steps. 

Laughing, Sera followed him onto the open floor. 

“What’s this?” She asked, to which Taren shouted back "dance!" as both an answer and instruction. 

They danced, wildly and not entirely on-beat. Sera laughed as Taren spun her In a neat twirl, and nearly yelped when he picked her up for a small leap. He hadn’t danced, really danced, since leaving his clan. Maybe it was the drink, or the music, or Dorian’s continued efforts to get him to laugh, but the distraction of the crowded tavern had worked. He let his feet move in familiar steps, for once quieting his mind with activity that felt easy and fun. Sera didn’t know the Dalish steps he led her in, but it didn’t matter. When one of them tripped up, both laughed, and it gave Taren a sense of nostalgia to let out some of his pent up energy in the movement. He would have to press Varric again to have a proper celebration of life held for Hawke, he noted, as a dull pang of guilt pricked at the back of his mind. It wasn’t the ceremonial dancing of a Dalish funeral, but the relief of it was the same. 

The jaunty tune began its final refrain, and Taren spun Sera in one last twirl, from which she emerged with a great, extravagant bow. The rest of the tavern was now watching, clapping and swaying along, and a few had even risen to dance themselves. Smiling, Sera elbowed Taren playfully.

"Was that elfy? Didn’t feel elfy." She asked, sounding far less indignant than usual.

"Of course." Said Taren, with a meaningful gesture toward himself. He was looking particularly _elfy_ as Sera put it, sporting his embroidered vest and with his hair braided back, revealing the tattoos across his forehead. Taren returned to his place at the table after giving a slight bow of his own. The ache in his leg would be aggravated tomorrow, but for now he felt like he was breathing easier than he had all week. 

"Well," said Sera, still red-faced and grinning, "you lot should do nothing but that."

Taren chuckled. "I'll tell them." He said, picking up his newly refilled mug of ale and drinking a little too much of it too quickly, to quench the thirst he’d worked up. 

Sera hopped back up on her barstool and slurred out a demand for more to drink, just as Dorian, who had sat by drinking and watching their display unfold, placed down his empty glass. He rose and strode confidently toward Taren.

"Might I have the next one?" He asked, voice smooth as his brandy, and held out his right hand.

The music was slower now, but building. Taren took Dorian's hand and followed his lead in a close four-step circle. One more step, and Dorian had led him into a deep dip. Their faces inches apart, Dorian held him in a precarious balance for one long beat.

"Let me show you how it's done." Dorian whispered, and the music picked up. 

This dance was different from the one they’d shared in Orlais, and farther still from the vine-weaving steps he’d guided Sera in taking around the tavern floor. A little more formal, but working more in the hips than in the feet. Dorian’s hand felt firm on his waist, and he found himself floating even further away from his cares on the sounds of music, leaning into Dorian’s guiding arms and becoming enraptured by the building heat in his body that stemmed from both dance and drink. When they returned to their seats, he was smiling a smile that was real, and humming along to the music rather than losing himself in dutiful concerns. Dorian sat next to him, close and still animated, bringing him from the dance and into conversation without allowing him a moment to catch his breath. 

Still, as the conversations drew on and the exchange of insults between Leila and Sera grew heated, his cares returned.

Sera had, ostensibly, said something to offend Leila regarding her past, although of what nature exactly Taren couldn’t be sure. What he did hear was the ensuing debate around the subject of slavery that sprang up in response. 

It started with the Iron Bull’s wholesale admonishment of Tevinter culture, which Dorian pointed back at the Qun for being no better. This was debated in the Qunari’s insistence that there weren’t _slaves_ in Seheron, to which Dorian protested on the grounds that Qunari treatment of mages, and in fact all people, was essentially no better. This argument quickly got the attention of Leila, who argued that Tevinter culture was, in fact, largely shit. Sera pressed her buttons with some new comment on her sneaky magical abilities, and Leila responded defensively, a darkness in her tone, as that conversation broke off into an argument of its own. It was then that Dorian attempted again to calm the conversation and give a nuanced Tevene perspective, which was by and large rejected. Sera and Leila returned to jovial insults, while Dorian and Bull continued the debate. Meanwhile, Taren’s head had, lightly, begun to spin. 

“It’s about autonomy, Bull! The way the Qun treats people!” Said Dorian in frustration. 

“And you’re one to talk?” Was Bull’s response, the argument now taking this loop for about the third time, “need I remind you, again, that Tevinter has _slavery_?” 

This time, the discourse was met with a drunk and goading comment from Leila, who had apparently just caught up. “But you’ll fix that, won’t you Dorian? Tevinter Liberation!” She proclaimed with a pump of her fist in the air, and from Sera’s approving laugh, it seemed that their spat had settled itself down again. 

“Exactly how much power do you think I have? At this point I’m essentially a professional pariah.” Dorian, impatient, protested. 

“Well,” interrupted Taren, the spirit of the argument finding him through the heat in the air, “in that case, I’m a professional heretic, but it hasn’t stopped me from essentially dissolving the Templar order...” Surely he could brag a little. 

“Well if you’re the act to follow we’re all in trouble.” Dorian quipped, which lightened the mood. 

“Still not sure it’s wise, boss. Now what happens when an abomination goes boom?” Bull spoke at the same time as Dorian, to a mixed response from the rest of the crowd. 

“The Dalish have been managing magic just fine without slavery _or T_ emplars for hundreds of years.” Taren pointed out, proudly, if a little clumsily when it came to the annunciation of the actual words. 

Sera rolled her eyes, stopping the tirade of elven pride that may or may not have been brewing before it could begin. “Please no speeches on elven glory, one crotchety old elfy speech a day is enough, and I already had one from Solas.” She complained. 

“Sera!” Someone, Dorian? Tried to make her say something nicer, but Taren didn’t care. 

_“Fenedhis,_ Creators’ sake, Solas doesn’t have any idea what he’s talking about.” He complained in response, a slightly modified tirade brewing now instead. 

“Oh? Nevermind then, go on.” Sera, leaning in with a laugh. 

“A walking _history book_ but so… ignorant.” Taren blurted out with an exasperated sigh. This was exactly why he shouldn’t have agreed to come out drinking; the rant was proving hard to keep in check. “Obsessed with this idea of ancient Arlathan but completely disregards everything we’ve done since! Just yesterday he called the parable of the fox a “misguided bastardization of ancient myth”, as though he's the authority, even though I doubt he’s _ever_ heard it told properly.” He could tell he had lost Sera, but kept going anyway, “criticizes tradition, belief, because some spirit told him that wasn't how it really happened - which isn’t even really the _point_ , but anyway, to blame _us_ for imperfect continuations of tradition from _ancient Arlathan_ , like the exalted march means nothing…" He trailed off, catching himself before he embarked on another criticism of the unfortunate mage’s flawed perspective. It didn’t matter, really, as no one but Dorian seemed to still be listening. 

Dorian, for his part, nodded along as Taren complained, then patted his knee reassuringly. Taren shook his head, feeling slightly guilty for his attack on Solas, who wasn’t even there to defend himself. “He doesn’t have it all wrong,” he reasoned, carefully, “but the way he talks about it is almost no better than you.” Taren directed the comment at Sera, who was making a show of her disinterest in all things “elfy” again, albeit a lighthearted one. 

“I did the dance didn’t I?” Sera protested against the accusation. “Didn’t hate that.” 

“Well good, because traditionally, it means we’re married now.” Taren said, keeping his face as straight as he could while Sera’s eyes went wide for a second. Dorian snickered beside him as he began to laugh, and Sera huffed. 

While the conversation returned to amusing tales and lighthearted insults, talk of slavery and Templars had apparently put Leila on edge. A drink later and she had fallen back into less-than-playful banter with Sera. It was no secret that Sera feared and distrusted magic, but in general she had gotten along with the mages in Taren’s company, and with Leila better than the others. Yet tonight Leila’s humour seemed to be in short supply, and with each passing round of drinks she grew quieter and shorter in her speech. Taren deliberately switched to water, and began making a point to veer away from the political in conversation; deciding it probably best for everyone. Unfortunately, Leila settled her disagreement with Sera by declaring her exit before Taren could settle a peace, but Sera seemed unbothered in the end, and returned to drinking and laughing along to Bull’s stories as easily as she had been drawn from them. Taren hadn’t been able to follow the argument anyway, as both parties seemed to be more aggravated by drink than by any intelligible words. 

“Has she talked to you at all?” He leaned in to ask Dorian, nodding toward Leila as she made her way out of the tavern. 

Dorian shook his head. “Myself and the esteemed Lady Sparrow? Discussing our innermost feelings? Unlikely.” He quipped lightly, but there was a twinge of concern lining his brow too. 

Taren took another careful sip of his water, and leaned a little closer to speak quietly under the rumble of the tavern noise. “We all saw things - nightmares - in the Fade. With the things it said to her...I worry.” 

Dorian shrugged like the admittance was obvious, and turned his concerned look toward him. 

“Perhaps you should afford some of that worry to yourself. I brought you out to relax, remember? She’s tough.” He paused, leaning still a little closer, and draping an arm over the back of his chair. “You can be something other than the commanding leader for one night, Amatus.” He advised, lifting his drink as he did. 

Taren followed his lead, taking another sip of ale and trying to shake off the unease. “You're right.” He agreed, though it came out still sounding unsure. 

Dorian looked at him intently, setting down his glass again with the lines of concern still knit into his brow.

“Or you could talk. Me, I prefer brandy, but I gather that getting things well and off one’s chest is generally regarded as the healthier option.” He said with an air that was too practiced in its nonchalance. 

The pang of guilt that hit Taren with that comment was more than just a fleeting discomfort, and he shrugged it off with substantial effort. Suddenly, Dorian stood, and pulled lightly at his arm. Taren followed him outside, still in something of a tired daze from the alcohol, dancing, and the unceasing business of the day before it all. When they stepped outside, the night air was refreshing in its coldness, and he took in a deep breath to center his thoughts. 

\----

Outside, Dorian pulled Taren into a kiss first, deep and passionate. Then, he took a deep breath, and opened his mouth to begin the process of getting out the speech he’d been rehearsing in his head. 

“Listen, there’s something I’ve been thinking a lot about,” he began, forthright and clear. 

Taren looked up at him patiently, still standing close enough that Dorian could feel the heat from his body. 

“If we’re doing this… whatever you want to call it.” Much less forthright. He rushed through to the next bit, “I want you to know that you aren’t just some charming elf who changed everything, to me.” 

“I don’t think I follow.” Said Taren, his head tipping to the left as he eyed Dorian with newly serious eyes. 

Dorian talked on, fumbling now with his main point. Which was simple, hopefully obvious, and somehow painfully embarrassing to voice, all the same. “Truth is, growing up it always seemed like the _elves_ in Tevinter were the only ones who were anything like people at all. You’re supposed to feel like you’re one thing, and everyone else is beneath you and not really a person at all, but it’s been plain to me a long time that really, things were more the other way around.” He sighed, hoping that sounded heartfelt and not arrogant. Usually he liked to weaponize his arrogance, use it for biting sass and truly remarkable charm; toning it down to get at the heart of things was much harder, and he didn’t know how someone as whip smart as the Inquisitor went about sounding _humble_ all day. “Tevinter’s legacy regarding the Dalish is well, it’s reprehensible. And I feel, I don’t know, ashamed I suppose, to have not cared more about it…” How inarticulate. He felt like he sounded royally stupid. “All of that is to say,” yes, this was better, now sum it up, “I think I should make it clear that, whatever the gossip may be, you aren’t some novelty…” Feeling stupid again, but that was half of it out. Now then, the point, get to the _point_. “Anyway, all of that in there about the atrociously corrupt and decaying society I hail from? Completely true.” That sounded good. Quite casual, but clear enough. “Still, I hope it doesn’t colour your judgment of me.” Finally. 

Taren smiled, and relief flooded him. “It doesn’t.”

Dorian let out a breath. “Good. Well now, I’ve said something painfully honest and vulnerable. Your turn.” That shouldn’t be a problem, Taren was much better at this sort of thing. Or usually he was, but whatever was keeping him up at night still hadn’t been sufficiently explained. 

“It’s nothing.” He said at first, and Dorian stepped closer to him, watching his face in the dim light that filtered through the tavern windows. Taren’s smile settled back into an unhappy grimace, and he leaned against the tavern wall, slouching a little as he did. He looked tired, like whatever energy he’d absorbed from the excitable company in the tavern was evaporating into the cold air. “I'm just... homesick.” His slouching frame bent lower, and he looked away. “I spent my life preparing to be the clan's protector, and then when they needed me…” The words spilled out quick and quiet, then trailed away, unspoken tensions filling up the air. 

“You were there for them.” Dorian stopped his anxious train of thought with certainty in the assurance. He tried to imagine what it must feel like, to be off fighting a war that wasn’t his while his people were pressed into fighting for their lives. He couldn’t, but he recognized the sound of a guilty conscience when he heard it. 

“People still died.” Taren said quietly, still looking away. 

None of this information was new, but somehow this time the words were heavier. Taren sighed and looked back up at Dorian, giving his head a little shake as though to rid it of the concern.

“It just makes me feel like I need to... take care of everyone.” He said, finishing the thought with a guilty little shrug that told Dorian that he knew exactly how absurd that sounded. 

That wasn’t all. A general concern for the wellbeing of others did not keep Inquisitor Lavellan up at night. That couldn’t possibly be _all_ , but it was enough for now. Dorian shook his head, he could hardly advise the man to be more selfish and less kindhearted, even if it might do him good. 

“Maker, you are so frustratingly innocent.” Dorian sighed, pulling him in close for another kiss. Very few people in his life could have fit that description, but the more he uncovered about Taren Lavellan, the more he found to admire. It was becoming a real problem. 

“I’m frustrating?” Taren stayed wrapped in Dorian’s embrace, lifting his head to his shoulder and closing his eyes, leaving warm breath on his neck as he spoke. He was pressing his body firmly against his, his hands finding their hold around his back. Enough talk, then. 

“Yes,” Dorian pressed him into the wall with another kiss, happy to indulge Taren’s desire to be brought back away from heavy topics. ”For now I am just _aching_ to strip you of some of that innocence.” Dorian purred into his ear. 

Taren laughed somewhat nervously. Adorable, but it wouldn’t do at all for what Dorian had in mind. 

“Why do you always laugh when I am not at all joking?” Dorian continued to growl low in his ear, his hands firmly pressing once more into Taren’s waist. 

“I’m just not as seductive as you,” Taren replied, sealing his laugh away under a smirk. Did he know how absurd a statement _that_ was? The way he danced, and moved, and looked at him with those sparkling green eyes. The way he kissed, and leaned toward him, and shamelessly expressed his desire and care as though _nothing_ about the cruel world of men scared him. Not seductive? Power, grace, and integrity all residing in one person. One of those things alone was _seductive_ , all together they were _dangerous._

“Oh but on the contrary, you are a seducer of the worst kind, because you have no idea how seductive you really are.” He quipped, seductively. He knew exactly how to make his voice sound appealing, how to tilt his head and smile at the best angles, how to walk and dress and wink as needed to get the things he wanted. All of that was an art, a craft he had been honing since he first discovered that to get the sort of attention _he_ wanted, there was a language he would have to learn. Taren had seemingly skipped over learning any such codes and gone straight for his desires. There was a freedom to his sensuality that Dorian would have killed for. Even now, leaning in to kiss him, pressing him into the wall of the tavern, he couldn’t quite forget where he was. While Taren moved with him and responded to his touch with growing force, an uncomfortable awareness of his surroundings continued to burden Dorian’s mind. They were off to the side of the tavern’s entrance, pressed into the shadows along the wall, but not entirely out of the way. People left and entered the tavern just some few feet from where they stood, and each time the door opened the roar of music and conversation left him feeling entirely too out in the open. 

“I'm not innocent, I'll have you know.” Taren straightened, pulling back with a coyness in his voice.

“Mhm.” Dorian made a disbelieving murmur over his lips, egging him on. 

“I do kill things for a living.” Taren insisted, once again on the cusp of a laugh. 

“Is that before or after you're done taking care of everyone?” Dorian teased, his voice still low. 

The most terribly _needy_ and uncomfortably romantic thought surfaced in his mind then, and he plunged it down quickly in order to think of something more aloof and flirtatious to say. But as he lost himself in another kiss, it floated around in his mind for a moment anyway, this terrible little thought: _take care of me._ Then just as that thought finished unwarrantedly poking at his vulnerabilities, he pulled back from the damnable kiss and caught another glimpse of that dark _something_ not being said behind Taren's eyes, and had another awful idea: _let me take care of you._

To say any of this aloud would surely kill him, so he leaned in for another kiss, this one biting a little, to prove he was dangerous.

Taren caught one of his hands as it wound its way up to the back of his neck and held it, pulling Dorian close with surprising strength. 

"Let's find somewhere private."

"Planning to take care of me?" His voice a growl, capped with another bite, just to be sure.

"Yes." Taren’s came in whispered earnestness, with a look that shook him to his core.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mythal ma enaste. -- a best take at "Mythal bless you" from how the phrases in the elvhen wiki seem to work.


	26. Where There's Smoke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CW: smoking something that is definitely an analogue for marijuana, sex. IMO there's a pretty clear difference between safely partaking in something with a trusted partner and having some fun and like "dubcon", and I try to make that really obvious, but CW for a healthy use of substances.   
> Chapter is explicit but I can't really divorce the sex from all the sappy, sappy talk so it's a long lead-up.

This affair he was having with Taren was an intoxicating one, if still alarming. Things had progressed in a slow fall from half hopeful flirtations to the hushed and nauseatingly vulnerable conversations about what it all meant which they had now arrived at, but what it meant was possibly the most intoxicating part. Dorian had, inadvertently, done something here with the Dalish elf who was going to save the world that he had never done before. He had become his friend first. And that one act made everything about their affair different.

It wasn’t that he had never before slept with someone he admired, or been on friendly terms with the guests in his bed, but his affairs had always necessitated a certain degree of discretion, and life in general a certain degree of caution. Good friends were as hard to come by as faithful lovers, and to have both was practically unheard of. He had run away countless times for the simple chance at being allowed to live freely, but he had never really  _ won _ it. And yet, this last time he had not run to spite his father, nor to take in as much sinful freedom as he could to bolster his own black mark, but to clear something up; to do right. And he had been trying to do just that when he was unceremoniously thrust through time and dropped at the side of Taren Lavellan. Joining the Inquisition was a right and honourable thing to do, and after only two minutes in an unnatural future with the Inquisitor he had determined him to be quite certainly a right and honourable sort of person. He hadn’t planned to think of him as anything other than that. 

In fact, for once in his life the idea of taking on a lover had been the furthest thing from his mind. The fact that the Inquisitor had been a pleasing sight to look at had just been an added bonus, and the fact that the striking elf returned his glances was, at first, merely a welcome compliment for his ego. But Taren liked to get to know people, and he was good at it. He told stories by his campfires, cooked meals for the scouts, asked questions upon questions upon questions with friendly and genuine interest. And he was a mage, a Dalish mage, which apparently meant techniques Dorian had never heard of, histories he’d never realised contained so much insight, and even an entirely different conception of what it all was, how it all worked. And Dorian loved to fiddle around with how it all worked. 

Taren was as good at getting to know people as he was at getting to be known. He shared tales and knowledge freely, usually blending the two. While his days were always filled with activity, he could be counted on to recline in the evening, appreciative of good conversation and good books. Soon, Dorian had found himself almost happy to spend weeks away from the fortress in the wild parts of Thedas, camping with loud warriors and unmannered rogues, because that same company was so good to have in the evenings by the fire. 

In truth, he had never had many friends. He had been quite popular among his peers at times, but he had formed an understanding very early on in life that this was not quite the same thing. He quite liked to be admired, and sometimes enjoyed being reviled just as much, but only a few people had ever cared for, or  _ trusted _ him. Felix had, and that loss left a dull ache in him that the campfire conversations seemed to help smooth away. Alexius had gone and been corrupted, like so many of his countrymen in the greedy and unfeeling establishments of Chantry and Magisterium. His past otherwise was riddled with drunken encounters and fun but insubstantial evenings of decadence - funny, that only as a pariah had he felt finally to have escaped a lifetime of certain loneliness. It made the Inquisitor, and in fact his entire operation, all the more remarkable. And it made him - unfairly perhaps, considering the state of the world - almost happy.

He had been happy to have a friend in Taren, and then that happiness began to turn to wonderings. He began finding himself awake at night, wondering about things like how his lips might feel, and where did all those tattoos get off to, and why was he so eager to flirt _back_? Then he had started to wonder about his life, about what it was like to grow up wandering, and to live so differently, so far from bleak opulence and gilded cages. Taren never minded sharing. He talked about his people with care, and always watched listeners closely, but Dorian also found that some frustrations were universal, and rigid traditions existed everywhere. He began to care about it, all of it. He wanted to know about his childhood and his life, about his beliefs and his ideas, likes and dislikes, family, past loves…

And now he knew too much, cared too much. Take his clothing - not only had warm woolen sweaters and sturdy, many-pocketed jackets begun to seem inviting, but the more uncoordinated blunders now caused soft spots to bruise up over his once baleful heart. Tonight, Taren was wearing that vest - the unrepentantly busy one, all covered in its wild and weaving embroidery - it was pretty, even artful, but altogether distracting and in poor contrast with the pattern knit into the wool shirt beneath it. It was shapeless too, sort of ill fitting and entirely too well worn. Bits of embroidery thread poked out, fraying at the edges, and in some spots sections of the pattern were lost altogether. There were a few tears about it too, and not tasteful rips, but the sort of damage that made the thing seem more than simply  _ well worn _ ; it was frankly worn to death. It had also been his mother’s. The first time Dorian had poked fun at it, Taren had revealed that fact without any special signification, and it had seemed silly. The leader of the Inquisition, commanding his forces about Thedas while draped in his mother's dilapidated old vest - there was a reason Cullen wore that great cape. Now, he knew too much,  _ cared too much _ , to laugh. Now he knew exactly what it meant for the displaced elf to have something of his past, of his parents'. It meant he had held on to the thing since childhood, dragging it through the Free Marches; snagging it on coastal rocks and baking it in campfire heat and hazy summer sun. There were old rips in the fabric that had been sewn up, uneven patchwork over one of the sleeves, and places where the embroidery was newer. Undone and mended, probably countless times. He couldn't laugh at it anymore, had even begun stopping Vivienne when she went in with a knowing glance or pointed cough. Now it didn't strike him as funny when the inquisitor dressed in haphazard avalanches of flannel shirts and wool knits and many-pocketed jackets - he had seen him do it, throwing on clothes in a distracted hurry, reading a letter in one hand while practicing staff movements with the other (layers he would later leave scattered about the place; a sweater over a chair in the rotunda, a jacket on a bench in the garden, and so on as the sun grew in the sky). And it didn't strike him as  _ funny  _ that Taren had been wearing the same tattered vest every day since his return to Skyhold. 

Taren hung on him while they walked, lightly clinging to his arm and leaning toward him, keeping in step. Despite his being taller, Dorian never did outpace the Inquisitor. He walked with long, quick strides, and was no stranger to bouts of sudden speed, jogging here and there to clip an interesting plant or hasten toward a beautiful view (it was a wonder, really, that he hadn’t broken his leg sooner than he did). His hurt leg did seem to be slowing him slightly, however, as his feet fell with uneven force, and Dorian found he had to watch that his own steps didn't land in their path. Taren wasn't quite barefoot, at the moment, but what he did have on didn't quite pass for shoes. They were more of a slipper, made of light leather and a simple drawstring closure; they seemed to have been made with the purpose of putting something between the sticky grime of the bar floor and his soles, more than anything else. This was made more certain by the fact that as Taren leaned them in the direction of the courtyard gardens, he slipped the things off his feet and strode forward onto the green lawn, stepping slowly onto the soft grass.

The gardens had been thoroughly renovated in the time since the Inquisition first settled into Skyhold. Thick grass littered with clusters of native wildflowers grew in a wide green. Spindly new trees were growing up around the gazebo at the far end, and birch and elm leaves scattered over its floor. Plots of land had been sectioned off with stone and tilled to grow healing herbs and vegetables, while still more plants lined the edges of the courtyard, sprawling out of pots and hanging baskets above the cobblestone border, which was lined with matching stone benches. He’d had one of those trees planted too, _vhenadahl_ , they were called, and though it was still small some of the elves who worked in the fortress had made it their own. Taren walked across the green with his arms spread open, and ducked into the gazebo with a slight hop to his step. Dorian followed quickly behind. 

The gazebo lit up. Taren had cast a spell, a floating bit of dim golden light to see by. Or, for Dorian to see by - an elf would hardly need it. Taren had settled onto one of the stone benches that had been moved under the structure’s roof; several had been arranged there to facilitate Mother Giselle’s habit of holding sermons outdoors on nicer mornings, and the few elves that roamed Skyhold sometimes used the space to tell tales or offer prayers on the days when it rained. He was fiddling with something, his vest gathered up like a blanket over his lap, and some small wooden contraption between his fingers. As Dorian approached and sat carefully next to him, he heard the quiet snap of Taren’s fingers, and felt the tiny pulse of magic in the air. A sweet smoke rose from the wooden contraption Taren held, and he brought it to his lips. He inhaled and leaned back with eyes closed before pulling the smouldering pipe from his mouth, then he seemed to hold his breath a moment before a long thin stream of smoke trailed up into the air toward the roof. The smoke spiralled up from his lips, and was swept away into the breeze. 

“What is that?” Dorian asked, settling into his seat beside him. Taren immediately leaned himself back into Dorian’s side and took another inhale of smoke from his pipe. 

“Elfroot.” he held the pipe up in an offering gesture, a bit of smoke still drifting from it’s open end. Dorian took a slow inhale from the thin end of it as Taren moved a thumb to uncover a small hole on it’s side. The air came through faster, and Dorian pulled away to choke back a cough. Taren sat chuckling. 

“You’ve never done this before, have you?” 

Dorian turned away to stifle a few more coughs before responding. He had partaken of a _number_ of interesting natural and unnatural things in order to achieve various states of mind, in his day, but he couldn’t recall ever having used Elfroot for anything other than mild healing potions and pain relief. And he had never been one for smoking pipes. He was surprised, actually, to find the Inquisitor with one; the elf rarely ever drank, and he seemed to have led a life essentially free of vices. 

“We have these water pipes in Tevinter, sometimes you’ll see them in drinking establishments, or at the more interesting sorts of parties.” Taren leaned back into him, taking another slow inhale and breathing the smoke up in another thin line that dissipated into the dim light. “Not for Elfroot though, usually something less harmless than that - made from poppies,  _ somniferum  _ \- dreadful stuff... though sometimes they’re just tobacco, flavoured with flower oils and fruits.” He paused to make another attempt with the pipe, copying Taren’s movements as closely as he could. A slow inhale, allow in some outside air to cool the draw, hold, and exhale. The smoke tickled at his throat, but he didn’t cough. 

For a moment before handing it back, Dorian looked at the wooden device in his hand. He was no expert, but it appeared to have been carved from a single piece of dark and reddish wood, maybe rosewood or mahogany. To one end it grew rounder, dipping down into a shallow bowl where the Elfroot Taren had packed it with was slowly turning to ash, and the ridge of that opening was stained black, showing its age. If it was old though, it was well taken care of. The wood was smooth, and he could make out the elegant grain of it, even in the low golden light. Similar spiraling patterns to the ones adorning Taren’s overworn vest detailed its sides, etched into the wood with perfect symmetry. 

“It’s pretty.” He commented conversationally as he handed the pipe back to taren, who lit it once more with a snap of his fingers. “Some of the pipes in Tevinter are ornate like that, all covered in designs or decorated with gems. It used to be a sort of ceremonial thing, rituals honouring the old gods and all that. Still might be, I suppose, to some.” 

Taren nodded, “we have some elders who still won’t agree to anything unless the promise is made over a shared pipe.” He related, shaking his head with a pleasant little smile. “Sometimes the Keeper would bless some and call a meeting of the elders.” He paused and took another quick draw, choking a little over the act of inhaling too fast. “One could blow these rings with the smoke, I always wanted to learn that.” He finished, sounding wistful. The smile that had formed on his lips began to look conflicted. 

“I think we had one, actually. This gaudy porcelain contraption, just for show, of course.” Dorian caught the look, and tried to keep the talk from settling too long. 

“In your not-for-sitting-room?” Taren asked, shaking off his wistful look to tease at something Dorian had explained, to much confusion, that night at the Winter Palace. 

He had snuck into Dorian’s room that night, showing up at his door with a desperate look and an entire dessert tray, stacked with pastries and colourful cakes. Dorian had been sort of uncomfortably perching about on the furniture in the room, idly considering an ugly pink chaise lounge he’d been too revolted by to sit on. The settee reminded him of one his mother had been rather proud to acquire and put on display with all their trophies and matching tea sets in the sitting room. She’d had all the furniture in that room spelled to keep it spotless and then, once it was sure that nothing could touch it, promptly banned anyone from ever sitting on any of it. At the Palace, however, Taren had walked right in with his tray of tiny cakes and gone and put his feet up on it. And after Dorian finished laughing, he’d had to spend fifteen minutes attempting to explain the concept of a room filled with furniture that no one was ever allowed to use. 

“Which of these cakes are safe?” Taren had asked, after slowly nodding through Dorian’s explanation without any sort of clarity registering over his features. “I didn’t get a chance to eat anything, so Sera stole me these, but I tried one and,” Taren made a face, sticking his tongue out and wrinkling his nose. 

That night Dorian learned that Taren didn’t like things overly sweet, not when it came to cakes, and certainly not when it came to sex. He had brightened up the place, springing into smiles and laughter as he draped his legs out and leaned back in a comfortable recline, and before Dorian knew it he was bending him over the revolting lounge chair, gripping at the plush pink upholstery until his knuckles went white. 

“Yes, and it would probably crack apart if one ever tried to use it.” He mused, returning to the subject of pipes. 

“Don’t take offence, Dorian, but I think I hate your house.” Taren replied, passing him the wooden pipe again with a laugh. Dorian laughed too, as he took it up to his lips, and the act of trying to smoke through laughter sent him coughing again. 

Dorian determined that it was time that talk turned to kissing, lest the effects of the strange herb be wasted altogether. He had never known that Elfroot could be smoked as such, and was surprised to find its effects already strong upon him. The sound of the wind rustling leaves in the thin trees danced pleasantly into his awareness, and he felt that the golden light Taren had cast was glowing brighter. No,  _ warmer _ . Looking to Taren, his tattoos seemed to shine out from his skin, his eyes sparkled in the light, and he felt the pressure of his body where it was leaning against him all over again, comfortable and warm. It felt as though he had forgotten the use of his senses and then suddenly remembered them again, and everything stood out like new. When he kissed him, sensation overtook his thought, and he found himself leaning into it again, moving closer and pressing deeper into each successive kiss. He bit at his lips and played with his tongue, and in his mind the feel of it all swam with the coolness of the night air, the rustling of the leaves, and the gold light. Taren chuckled as he pulled out of the last one, needing air. Once his breath was caught, Dorian kept Taren’s face in his hands, looking closely at the ink over his forehead and cheeks, half expecting the weaving swirls of it to start moving. He stroked one instinctively, brushing his thumb along the curving lines on Taren’s cheek, and Taren chuckled again. 

“You find it makes your eyesight better, Elfroot?” He asked, noticing again how much the green of Taren’s eyes glittered in the dimness, and how some of his freckles speckled darker over the red-brown ink on his skin. 

“Eyesight? No, but it’s supposed to be good for the spirit.  _ Inan elgar lasa viane, itha vindru, dirtha ma revas _ …” He recited thoughtfully, “part of the blessing; seeing truth like a spirit, speaking freely.” He leaned his face in for another kiss, and tugged slow at Dorian’s bottom lip as he pulled away. 

“Maybe that’s why it’s used in cataract tinctures…” Dorian was making connections between words like inan that meant “eyes” and recipes for potions and the sudden alertness in his own vision and - speaking freely. Did that mean rambling off in any distracted direction that struck him? He could see, too, why the Dalish used it to settle promises. He felt honest. 

“Do you feel alright?” Taren asked suddenly, peering at his pondersome face. Dorian brought his eyes back to Taren’s sparkling ones and felt his smile stretch across his face as though it were an entity completely free from his thought.

“I feel...honest.” He said aloud. Taren laughed again.    
  
“Is that so unusual?” He pressed closer, turning slightly to wrap his good leg with Dorian’s, and pulling him into another all-encompassing kiss with his arms wrapped around his neck. 

“Never used to be honest,” Dorian breathed over his lips, “then, you…” more kisses, like floating. He lost the thought and concentrated on pressing back against the firm warmth of Taren’s torso, running his hands over his hair - untangling the braid, gently pulling it loose and combing his fingers through it until it was free and messy. 

“Alright then, tell me something honest.” Taren said, pulling away again in order to tap the ashes out from the little pipe and fill it. He took some dry, finely ground bits of plant matter from a pouch tucked into a pocket of the vest on his lap, and pressed it firmly into the bowl end of his pipe, while Dorian spoke freely. 

“Once, when I was fourteen, I brought a friend home while my parents were away during the day,” Dorian started with a memory he had almost forgotten, “and I wanted to seem impressive, you see, so I pulled down a bottle of Firewiskey from one of my father’s liquor carts, and we just began taking pulls from it, right from the bottle.” He chuckled, “the stuff tastes like cinnamon and, well, whiskey. And it  _ burns _ . But we kept on drinking it, thinking ourselves tremendous rebels. It was all of three in the afternoon.” Taren passed him the pipe again, and he paused his tale to take in some more of the sweet smoke. He was getting the hang of it now, inhaling a little more and letting it sit, seeping down into his lungs slowly and returning to the air in a long, careful breath. And as he watched the haze of smoke spiral through the golden light he thought of Taren’s tattoos, and the Dalish designs that adorned his few personal possessions. There was a scent like burning spices, blended with the earthiness of the root. He blinked, finding his train of thought again as the smoke disappeared. “But I miscalculated, or lost track of time. I’d never been drunk before,” he chuckled again, but sadly, “and so in walked my mother, just returning from her Chantry services, of all things.” 

“You got caught drinking? I imagine she wasn’t too pleased.” Taren had an amused little smile on his face, and messy hair falling over his glittery eyes. Dorian brushed some of it aside. 

“Mm, about the half-drunk bottle of Firewiskey? No, she wasn’t, but that didn’t come up until later. We’d moved on to other things besides drinking, by then.” 

“Ah.” The amused little smile departed, and for a second Dorian was sad that he’d chased it away. But he went on, speaking freely - feeling honest. 

“She screamed, I screamed. Poor whatever his name was jumped out a window, I think. Then my father stormed in, there was more screaming…” 

Taren pressed himself tighter into his side. “I’m sorry, Dorian.”

“They never  _ hurt _ me, you know? Not like some parents. It was just, other things. First doors taken off their hinges, then a boarding school, then a stricter boarding school, once I got myself kicked out of the first one, and so on. Eventually the tower.” He sighed. 

“Tower?” 

“You know, like a disobedient princess.” Dorian attempted a joke, forcing a smile over the matter, but Taren didn’t laugh. 

“Dorian…” 

“I know, I’m being terribly dull.” 

“Not the word I was going to use.” Taren’s brow furrowed, and Dorian kissed it. 

Taren tilted his head up, and found Dorian’s lips with a gentle kiss, but it grew harder as Dorian returned it. Taren’s tongue parted his lips and his hand reached up to push his head deeper into it, until he was filling him up. There was the taste of smoke on his tongue, not acrid and stale but warm and earthy, like kissing a campfire, but sweet. Notes of cinnamon. 

Dorian pulled away, breathless. “You’re like Firewiskey, Taren.” He muttered, his lips burning now from the force of all their fevered kisses. Taren leaned his forehead against his as he whispered his words half-hoarse over the breeze. “And I just keep thinking,  _ I’m going to get caught _ .” 

“I said I’d take care of you, remember?” Taren hushed him with another kiss, “nothing is going to happen to us.”

Us. He said it like it was easy, and maybe for him it was. Comfortable in his sensuality and his desires. Comfortable anywhere, calling everywhere  _ home _ . Putting his feet up on expensive furniture in the Winter Palace, settling into bedrolls like they were made of feather pillows, kissing him without looking around first. 

‘I want you, out here.” Taren whispered, tugging at Dorian’s lip again as he moved a hand over his thigh. 

Dorian swallowed, for all his adventurous escapades, things that were  _ public _ still excited his nerves. Not in an entirely unwelcome way, but a way that sent his heart fluttering, nevertheless. It was getting late, but not so late that the fortress lay silent. Cullen likely hadn’t even finished his nightly patrols yet. But Taren was right, wasn’t he? Nothing was going to happen to them, and if he was honest - which he was, desperately so - he wanted nothing more. 

“Mm, so hasty.” He teased, moving from Taren’s lips and down into the sensitive bit of neck just under his ear. Taren shivered under him, and his hands pressed harder into his hip and thigh. 

He didn't need Taren's little pipe of sweet smelling herb to intoxicate him. In fact if anything, the pipe had sobered him a little after what may have been one too many drinks in the tavern. Though despite his heightened awareness of sense, he could feel a familiar swirling of his thoughts, and an uncharacteristic sort of giddiness that he recognized as part of the effect - intoxicating, honest. He never used to be honest. Always used to be intoxicated… but not like  _ this _ . Wine to elicit dancing, and maybe something more to mask the fact that he didn't always know - or care - what he was getting himself into. Just a burst of something reckless to fend off the emptiness. But that wasn't the case, with Taren. He still liked wine, still enjoyed swaying and spinning under fast beats of music, and still, sometimes, preferred a good stiff drink to a sober consideration of his feelings, but with Taren he always knew exactly what it was he was getting into. There was safety in Taren's honesty, where he had never associated the two before. Smoking Elfroot together under the clouded stars, the smoke rising into the air in patterns like the ones that danced across Taren's skin, he felt calm and _f_ _ ull. _

Taren giggled,  _ giggled _ , as he fiddled with a buckle over Dorian's ribs, tugging carefully at the leather straps holding his ensemble together, and slipping his hand in under layers until he found his skin, pulling him closer with hands that wrapped under his garments and slid warmly against his bare back. Dorian laughed too, into another kiss.

Taren’s clothes came undone easier, a simple set of buttons held his trousers shut under the vest blanketed over his lap, and Dorian slipped his hand inside, feeling Taren’s eagerness in his hand and grinning as he dug his lips once more into Taren’s neck, pressing in with long, sucking intensity as his hand wrapped around his cock and Taren leaned back with a quiet hum. He stroked him slowly, squeezing gently and rubbing down and around to his inner thigh, loosening the fabric of his trousers so that they fell away under the cover of his vest. Now the sensations that were blending in his mind exploded, and he began to lose himself in doing whatever he wanted, with his lips running wild over the warm skin of Taren’s neck and collar bones, breathing in his scent of pine and spiced smoke, tasting the hint of salt from lingering sweat, and feeling his hard cock in his hand and his breath catching under his lips. 

Taren pushed him up, off of him and off the bench, and Dorian let him lead the way as Taren left the vest draped over the bench and pulled his trousers up with one hand, still pushing Dorian with the other. The light hovering above them went out, and as Taren kept pushing him, walking him slowly and kissing continuously at his lips, ears, jaw and throat as he did, he let his hand fall from where it had been clutching closed his fly, and brought it back to fumbling with buckles as Dorian’s back landed against the gazebo wall. 

Starlight and the dim glow of a waning moon only barely illuminated the gardens, and in the shadow cast under the gazebo’s roof Dorian could only just make out the shape of Taren’s body and the glimmer in his eyes. Then they were gone, his hands sliding down to undo more buttons and snaps, and his face disappearing into the shadows. Taren pushed his legs gently apart, and Dorian quickly moved to help him find a way into his garments, undoing his own trousers and finding the top of Taren’s head with his hands. Then he felt his mouth on him, sweet lips kissing again at exposed skin, hands moving up his thighs and grasping around the erection Dorian had helpfully freed from his trousers. He leaned his head back against the hard stone behind him, and closed his eyes. 

It felt like every secret he had ever kept could spill out of him in those moments, and like if he were to open his eyes and look out, that every star in the sky would be pulsing and burning above; it felt like the breeze in the trees was rustling around in his lungs, and like his heart was on fire, smouldering with notes of root and spice. He tried to keep his body still, pressing himself into the cool stone as the surges of pleasure flooding him made his hips want to rise and his legs want to buckle and his arms want to grab and pull. Too much, too  _ close _ , and too soon. He opened his eyes, and found they had adjusted to the dark. The garden outside was dim grey in the starlight, and the shadows he writhed under were safely dark, but Taren he could make out now, his auburn hair shining gold sometimes under a sliver of moonlight, his eyes flashing up to watch him filled with a whole sky of glittering stars. He gripped at a fistful of Taren’s hair, pulling his head back gently, then grabbing him with more force to bring him up and into his arms. He covered him in kisses, fast, desperate, burning ones, as his hands slipped once again into Taren’s trousers and made rough, hard grabs at what he couldn’t resist anymore. 

Taren didn’t like things overly sweet. Dorian spun him round, switching their places by pulling him around by the wrist and stepping away from the wall in a move not unlike the twirl of a dance, and pressed his arms into the stone with a firm grip. He kissed his neck, his shoulders, his ears. Taren laughed a tickled sort of laugh under the kisses, so Dorian kissed harder, and grazed his teeth over his neck. He moved his hands over his body and back, and pressed with his whole weight into him, tight. 

“You want me, out here?” He whispered it like a challenge, grinding into Taren, pressing his hips into him as he pushed Taren’s trousers lower, exposing his thighs to the cold air and hard stone. “I don’t know if you can be quiet enough, Amatus.” He hissed, “imagine if you were to get caught, half naked and pinned to the wall.” He pushed him harder into the wall with a thrust, “being used and manipulated, your hard cock in my hand,” he squeezed for emphasis, and Taren let free a soft moan.

“Yes, I want you.” Taren whispered back, straining his head to reach Dorian’s lips with another hard kiss. 

Dorian grabbed him harder, moving his hand with a quickening tug as he slid the other hand down to tease around Taren’s ass. “And you want to take care of me, is that it?”

“Mm,” 

“You’re right, you are far from innocent.” He growled close against Taren’s cheek, and Taren moaned again, and replied to the accusation with a happy half-chuckle. “Don’t you laugh,” Dorian warned, moving his hand faster, pressing his cock up to grind against Taren’s ass. “Why do you always laugh? I am being quite serious. I will fuck you, right here, until you have to bite down on that little pipe of yours to keep from screaming.” He swiped a hand over Taren’s mouth, pressing two fingers against his lips to part them, and Taren took them into his mouth obediently. He pulled his hand away and let go of Taren’s cock while he did, moving to tease at his ass and cover his mouth. His fingers pressed their way inside, and he felt Taren moan into his hand as he kissed his neck with long hard pulls at his skin. “You intoxicate me, Amatus. I fear I can’t get enough.” He pressed into him, teasing with his fingers and returning to his cock with his other hand. 

“Tell me what you want,” He demanded, “and if you can be serious, maybe I’ll take care of  _ you. _ ” 

“Dorian,” Taren breathed his name through another quiet gasp, “I want you - I want you to -  _ fuck _ -” 

His name sounded like music on Taren’s lips, and those breathless gasps were driving him wild. 

“Fuck me, fuck me,  _ fuck _ .” Maker, he knew no better pleasure than making him swear like that. 

Dorian thrust into him, not bothering to start out slow or gentle, but pressing his lips into Taren’s to keep them both quiet, pushing his tongue into his mouth and gripping his hips tight. He moved his hands over him as he thrust deeper, pulled at his hair and grabbed his cock and stroked hard and fast along with his thrusts. Taren’s hands were pressed flat into the stone wall, and his breaths between kisses sucked in the cold night air in quick, strained gasps. 

Taren came before he did, stifling a moan by pressing his mouth into Dorian’s, and then Dorian was coming too, clenching his jaw with the release to keep back his own groans, and pushing him harder still into the stone. He slowed, not pulling out until he was entirely through, and not releasing Taren from kisses until several moments later still. Finally, he released him, and Taren turned to lean his back on the wall, pulling up his trousers while that satisfied and crooked little smile of his settled itself into his face. 

Taren slid down to the ground, sitting with his legs bent up in a reclined lean against the wall, and once Dorian had reassembled his own outfit he joined him. Taren leaned his head on Dorian’s shoulder and let out a breath. 

“You feel…  _ fuck _ , you feel amazing.” He muttered, and Dorian let out a long breath of his own. 

“I really  _ can’t _ seem to get enough of you.” Dorian agreed, leaning his head back and closing his eyes again to take in the sounds drifting in the breeze and the cool air on his flushed face. 

“I’m exhausted.” Taren admitted after a few pleasant, quiet moments. 

Dorian opened his eyes as Taren pressed a hand into his shoulder to lift himself back up. He rose too, following Taren back to the bench and then out onto the lawn again. He stayed close to him as they walked the short distance across the lawn and entered Skyhold through a side door from the garden, blinking in the torchlight that illuminated the halls inside. 

“Are you coming up?” Taren stopped short of the entrance to the main hall, catching Dorian by the arm before he could determine if he should turn toward his own room.

“I thought you only wanted to sleep.” 

“I do.” A hopeful smile, “and you’re welcome to do so with me.” 

Just sleep. He’d been falling asleep in Taren’s bed most evenings, after a visit with scrolls and books inevitably turned to sex, but he’d never simply gone up at the end of the night as though it were his own room to return to. He wasn’t sure why it felt so significantly different, but it did. 

“Just sleep?” 

Taren swallowed his smile. “Afraid I’m a bit too tired for much else.” He shrugged. “Your choice.”

“Alright.” 

Taren smiled again, and led him through the blissfully empty main hall to his chambers. 


	27. Not Sleeping

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kind of a whumpy chapter, what can I say. This is my house of self indulgent daydreams. 
> 
> CW for some allusions to trauma, bad coping mechanisms/probable alcoholism, and a sexual situation. 
> 
> Hurt/comfort and also just a little comofrt/hurt...

Leila walked with fists clenched at her sides, her shoulders high and stiff, and her mouth twisted into a tight scowl. In her mind, Sera’s little jab about “ _ secret witchiness _ ” felt obnoxious and mean. It probably wasn’t really, but laughter at her expense sent something acidic burning up her throat, and if she wasn’t  _ very  _ careful she’d wind up spitting out something foul. And yes, she was drunk, and  _ yes _ that was making her stupid, but mostly it was just all the noise. And the light. And the heat of bodies and jostling of limbs surprising hers under the table. She just needed air. 

Outside it was cold, a chill blowing in with the soft winds which twisted about in the Inquisition’s flags up high on the battlements, and thick grey clouds were rolling in fast over the growing dusk. Leila took a deep breath, steadying herself with hands on her knees for a moment before slinking back some few steps to a lumpy bit of wall away from the door. She leaned back, concentrating on the act of deepening her breaths to quell the rising queasiness in her stomach. In a few moments, her breath slowed and she returned her posture to one that was more upright, still deciding whether or not to go back in, or simply wander off into the night in search of some leftover refreshments and something mindless to do. Maybe she could brave the noise again. Maybe, if she was just stupid enough, she could get in a real fight. Maybe she wanted to be that stupid, after all. 

She was steeling herself for a burst of stupidity, when Krem appeared in front of her. He had been in the tavern some time, joining the group of singers a little later in the evening with a cheery voice and a lute he didn’t quite know how to play. She’d smiled a little, noticing him come in, and for a minute hoped he had noticed her too. Then later on, she had hoped he  _ hadn’t _ , as she sloshed her drink and got red in the face shouting across from Sera. Apparently, he had. 

“Thought I saw you storm out. You alright?” 

“Fantastic.” 

“Need some backup for this fight you’re going to pick?” Krem raised an eyebrow. “We can place some bets, start a whole brawl.” 

She responded with a dry laugh. Right, so it had been a bad plan. 

“Or we could just take a walk?” He offered instead. Leila nodded. 

Krem was nice, but not like the Inquisitor was nice. Instead of concerned looks and heartfelt words, he would be one to talk about nothing for a while, telling jokes and stories. And unlike Dorian, he didn’t lean on big words or rush off on tangents without her. He would also be something nice to look at, which might have been a stupid reason to agree, but she  _ was _ in the mood for stupid. 

“How was the desert?” 

“Hot, dry, full of demons and beasts.” Krem chuckled, “Reckon we left it better than we found it, though.” 

“Next assignment?” 

“Don’t know, but I heard something about a dragon in the Frostback Basin. Bull has his way, that’d be it.” 

“Wish I could get out of here.” She complained, “fighting a dragon sounds good.” 

“Thought you would’ve had your fill. That close call at Adamant has me set for a while.” 

Leila shrugged. The dragon had been far from the worst part of the fighting at Adamant Fortress. 

“Seriously, are you alright?” 

“Told you, fantastic.” She shot him a sideways glance, and he pretended to miss it. 

“Good, I was worried.” 

They’d only walked a short distance, approaching the staircase that led up to the battlements. Leila hopped up a couple of steps, getting ahead of Krem while he lagged behind, ruffling a hand through his hair. 

“Why?” Leila stopped at the top of the stairs, looking out over the tavern below. 

“I don’t know, I guess you’re sort of alright to play cards with,” Krem shrugged, smirking at her. “and you looked shaken enough after that night in the Palace.” the teasing smirk was interrupted by a more meaningful look. Leila inwardly cursed his sincerity; so much for avoiding heartfelt concern. 

“You know, you win more fights when the people on your team know what’s going on.” He added, pointed, but also a little apologetic. She sighed. He was right, of course. This Inquisition thing was supposed to be a team effort. 

“I should have killed the bastard.” She admitted, “but he said something and I…” she shook her head. “Stupid.” 

Krem offered a cautious hand out to touch her shoulder, and she let it rest there, sighing under it. 

“Who was he?”

“The reason I’m here.” Leila replied, crossing her arms and turning to keep walking. 

“Sorry you didn’t kill him.”

It was common enough knowledge that it was the betrayal of a Tevinter slavemaster that had earned her a place in the Inquisition, for that story was dramatic and dark in the kind of way that set tongues wagging. But only a handful of people knew how she had ended up there in the first place. Krem knew only the tracest amount of the tale; that before Tevinter, she’d been in Orlais, and that some bastard bard had sold her out. It was enough though, that when he said his next words, he did so with bite. 

“Next time you get a chance, you can count me in.”

“Thanks.” She put meaning into it, that little reminder of friendship soothing out what was left of her itch to pick a fight. 

They walked a few more paces, then Krem turned to take the steps down onto one of the platforms, and stopped leaning against the edge of the battlements, looking at her. She followed, and leaned beside him. The winds were stronger up on the walls, and she could feel the heat that had been spreading up to her ears start to drift away. In fact, now it was cold. She crossed her arms tight to hold back a shiver. 

Krem moved a little closer to her, just like a boy cautiously approaching a girl in a dance hall, sliding across the wall and bringing an arm up over her bit of it, close but not quite touching. She shrugged into it, finding that his broad shoulders blocked the wind nicely. 

"If you've really had enough R and R, I can put in a word with the boss." He suggested, taking comfort from her movement toward him and closing the gap between his arm and her shoulder. 

She was still getting used to having rest times between her work at all, and it didn’t take her more than a day of “free time” to start itching for something to stab, so she nodded at Krem’s suggestion eagerly, and let herself lean a little further into the shelter from the wind that Krem had formed around her back. 

“I’m...really glad you made it back.” Krem offered up another bit of something heartfelt, and Leila shrugged, though the words kicked something different up in the back of her throat from the queasy anger she’d been stifling only moments ago. 

“Why?” She asked again, hiding the feeling under a smirk. 

“Just would have missed you.” Krem answered plainly, but one hand squeezed testingly around her shoulder while he spoke. Leila leaned into it approvingly. “And we never did finish that dance.” He remarked, hopefully. 

He wasn’t good at subtlety, even though he tried to be unobtrusive with his hinting. He was, after all, still a mercenary soldier - one who spent most of his time running about with a man who had tactfully named himself The Iron Bull, so subtlety couldn’t have been high on the list of things his company trained in - but Leila found that she was fine with obvious. The effects of the alcohol that had left her bordering on frenzied and sick earlier were settling nicely back down to merely keeping her cheeks warm and humour upbeat. The consistent sounds of breezy winds and fluttering flags were easier to think around than the tavern noise, and she settled into the decision to take up Krem’s offer with a smile, grabbing his arm as she pulled away from the wall. Dancing up on the walls was a fair step down in stupidity from picking a fight, after all. 

Krem chuckled as she pulled him out to the center of the platform by the hand, and grinned as he spun her under one of his arms in a twirl. Then she took an extra step forward, purposefully missing the sidestep move that would take them through the square of a proper dance, and pushed into Krem with a deliberate squeeze at his shoulder. He echoed her grasp with his hand at her waist, and then she pushed a little closer, lifted her head up, and sprang a kiss onto his lips. 

When he kissed her back, it was hot and excited, the hand that had held her's to lead the dance dropped to her hip, and for a moment he held onto her in a tight squeeze, while she pulled herself up to him with a fast grip on his shoulders. He stumbled back a little, and then pulled completely away, palms up and open at his sides. 

“Hold on, you’ve been drinking -” 

She moved into him again, pulling her lips up to his again with hands still at his shoulders, and quieted his protest with another kiss. He returned the kiss again, the taste of beer on his lips as much as on her own. Her tongue edged into his mouth, and one of his hands moved back to her waist, while his mouth moved against hers in somewhat sloppy eagerness. 

He stopped again, holding her back a little with arms stretched out to where his hands still rested on her hips, and took in her face. Leila smirked up at him. “We’ve both been drinking, Cremisius.” She supplied helpfully, her voice low and teasing, “don’t tell me a  _ mercenary _ never has a little fun.” With that, she was on him again, and he was pulling her into it with much more eagerness, until they had stumbled back to the ledge of the wall, and she had Krem pressed up against it as their tongues did a hasty battle within their mouths. She felt his hands on her, moving to squeeze lower than her waist, and pressed encouragingly into his body, enjoying the firm pull of it all a little too much. 

“My room?” She panted with a nod in the direction of the door into the fortress that stood just up the steps from their quiet outcropping of the wall, tugging lightly at Krem’s wrist with the suggestion. 

“I don’t usually…” More concern was working its way into Krem’s voice, and Leila rolled her eyes. 

“Really?” She asked, cocking her head to offer him another coquettish smirk and pressed into him with another full bodied kiss. "I thought the Chargers were a pretty free loving bunch. No pants Fridays and all that. Harder to find a tavern wench who  _ hasn't _ slept with your boss, I'd wager…" She tried to think of an ailment for which she hadn't heard the Qunari boast an orgasm as the cure.

Krem frowned. "You think I'm easy to bed just by association?" He asked, sounding slightly offended. Hopefully not too offended. 

"Yes?" She admitted, smiling expectantly. 

"I'm not." Krem broke the fun she'd already become invested in once more, and his frown deepened. 

"Ok," Leila said, undaunted, "you're not. So lucky me then. You do still want to bed me, right?" She flashed him a knowing smile and teased one more kiss at his lips, damned if she would give up her pursuit of stupidity now that she had found the perfect venture. Sex. Hot and heavy and without a lot of discussion, preferably before the effects of the drink wore off completely. It was exactly the right kind of stupid. 

The distance to her room wasn't far, and they stumbled toward it with mouths pressed together and hands gripping clumsily at clothing. She unlocked the door and pushed Krem inside, quickly closing it behind her and tucking a hand up under his shirt with the next kiss. 

"Lei-" another jolt to a stop. "We should talk, you know. Not that I  _ don’t _ , I do. But it can be strange, to some…” He skipped around the topic, though she knew well enough what he was implying. It was no secret, in the Chargers, and she’d been around enough to not have to bother asking questions. The truth was that Krem was attractive, and as much a man as anyone, and that she’d never really found reason to care in the first place. 

“I promise you it will not be  _ strange  _ to me." Leila said, a genuine grip tightening over her heart at the sound of his concern. Worse, the truth was that Krem was not just attractive, but that she  _ liked  _ him, and he  _ wanted _ her. "I want to bed you, you want to bed me," She affirmed, flashing him another smile as her hands returned under his shirt and her fingers grazed along the vest he wore beneath it. "What's more to talk about?" 

Just get on with the stupid act of sex, already, she thought to herself impatiently as his hands tentatively returned to feeling up her rear. Stress, nightmares, and guilt - she'd tried all her usual efforts to cure those ailments, and an impulsive evening spent with a warm body in her bed seemed like the next most promising thing. Why overthink it?

His shirt came off over his head, and Leila worked her fingers up through the laces that bound his under-vest closed in the front, loosening them with dexterous speed. While she worked, she moved him into the bed, and he fell down into a seat on its edge with hands still at her waist, pulling her forward. Then he was over her, a firm weight pressing her back onto the bed, and large strong hands ducking into her own tunic. A calloused finger rubbed over her skin, jumping over the smooth bump of a thick scar at her waist, and then another. Leila stiffened slightly as the fingers danced curiously up her side, slowing from their excited hurry to see her undressed and returning over the blemishes with careful consideration. Then Krem tugged at her shirt, pulling it up just enough to expose a bit of belly and the first few marks on a long ladder of scars leading up her side, and she stiffened completely. 

Leila grabbed his wrist and pulled her shirt back down, then wrapped her arms around his neck to distract herself away from the discomfort with more kisses. 

There was more caution to Krem's movement now, and Leila had to egg his hands on, pushing them down to grip at the waistband of her trousers before she returned to the task of undoing his clothes. When he pushed his hands down over the bones of her hips, sliding trousers and smallclothes down in one movement, she braced herself for another instance of curious stroking over the scars he'd find on her thigh, and tried to distract herself out of any more involuntary stiffness by concentrating on freeing his trousers from his hips, too. 

He didn't give pause to the scars, this time, but he didn't continue downward with enthusiasm, either. Instead he returned his hands to her tunic, sliding a hand up under it again to cup over her breast, which felt good, and turning up her shirt again for another attempt at removal with his other hand. She grabbed his wrist again. 

"I'll keep it on." She said, trying to sound commanding enough that it wouldn't have to be a conversation. Her easy solution to unhappy thoughts was starting to have the opposite effect, and she kissed at his lips again to try to get the spark of uncaring excitement back. 

"No." Said Krem, pulling away with a deep breath and a shake of his head. 

"No?" She asked, and the bite of it was sharper than she meant it to be. Krem lifted himself fully away from her and frowned. 

"I mean, you can keep your clothes on, but we're not doing this." 

Leila stiffened, pulling quickly at her lowered trousers as she sat up to direct him an unimpressed eye. "Why not?" She protested, her heart skipping into quick beats as she tried to fashion a coy smile over her lips, "you need to see breasts, that it?" 

Krem moved another inch away, looking insulted. Leila sighed. "Krem…" she said his name softly, encouragingly, but he shook his head again. 

"You're way too uncomfortable, I'm not doing this." He said again. 

"I'm not un-" 

"Sparrow." He halted her with a look. "I _have_ a body that I don't let just anybody see," _and he was_ _here_ , he didn't say, _trusting her_ , "I _get_ it. I'm not doing this."

Her idea. This had been  _ her idea _ . She wasn't uncomfortable except for in her very real need for some kind of release,  _ relief _ , in the form of red-hot passion mindless enough to take her pent up energy out so that she could sleep. 

"I  _ want _ you to do this." She insisted, though the truth of that statement was quickly slipping away. Her skin felt hot and itchy where his hands had been, like his gentle stroking over her scars had made them all fresh again. 

"Then you can get undressed." Krem challenged, nodding knowingly when Liela made no move to do so. "Thought so." 

"Have another drink with me, and I won't care." She offered, forcing a bright tone as she stood up and took a few steps to the drawer in the room's armoire where she kept the better quality bottles of ale she'd acquired. Behind her, Krem shrugged back into his overshirt, pulled his trousers up, and stood with a disapproving expression and crossed arms. 

"No." He said again, and Leila's forced smile fell away completely. 

"Alright, fuck you too then." She said coldly, bitterness quickly closing up around whatever hurt Krem had unwittingly done her. 

"Andraste's sake, Sparrow." Krem met her insult with an exasperated breath of quiet words and a hand through his hair. "If you can't fuck me sober, we don't fuck." 

What a shitty rule. She couldn't remember the last time she'd fucked  _ sober _ , at least not of her own volition. 

"Why the fuck not?" She complained, uncorking the bottle of ale she'd found whether he wanted to share it or not. 

"Because I'm your  _ friend. _ " Krem narrowed his eyes and furrowed his brows in disbelief, watching her take a long swig of ale from the bottle. "I want… I want us to be friends." 

Leila stopped drinking abruptly, almost choking on the ale and definitely splashing some onto the floor as she pulled the bottle too quickly from her mouth. Krem was fully dressed again, having tightened the laces back up over his trousers and re-buttoned his shirt while she'd been opening the new drink, and he was looking at her with eyes sadder than a beaten puppy's. She looked down at her own state of dress, still half-undone and tousled. She pulled her trousers further up on her hips, tying them tight over the crisscross of scars that had begun to jump back out at her with bad memories and long ago aches. 

"I have to go." She muttered unhappily, darting for the door before Krem's look of confusion could press her into any more unwanted talk. 

She realised, belatedly, as she threw up her curtain of invisibility out in the brightly lit hall, that the situation she'd abandoned was in  _ her _ room, and that she didn't have anywhere else to go. 

\----

There was a fire smouldering in the hearth of the Inquisitor’s chambers, and a kettle of water sat by its edge keeping warm. The place was a little fuller now than it had been, with more furniture seeming to turn up each time the Inquisitor was away from Skyhold. Taren always sort of sighed at his already-lit fires and turned down sheets, but Dorian for one greatly appreciated the hospitality. Josephine’s choices of decor were elegant enough, too, if a little plain. She’d bought him a couch in Orlais; a nice one, comfortable. The sort of thing a person might actually sit on. And while the bed remained garishly Ferelden, it was done up finely now with a few extra pillows and soft blankets. Taren’s desk at the far end of the room was probably also Ferelden and similarly solid, but it was lost entirely under piles of papers, books, letters, and scrolls. Taren also kept books stacked on the floor by the desk, and scrolls rolled up and piled high onto some simple shelves that had appeared sometime after scrolls had begun spreading across the floor into the middle of the room. There was art, too, of a sort. A few interesting knicknacks from the Inquisitor’s travels decorated the walls and spaces on shelves not already usurped by his work. He had one of those plates with the Divine’s likeness on it, because Varric and Sera had felt compelled to buy it for him as a sort of gag gift, and it had amused him endlessly. Soft carpets had been placed over his cold stone floors, and he had some hand-drawn bits of artwork pinned up on the walls near the desk. Some of it was his own, and some came to him in letters or gifts. A colourful painting of a child’s rainbow was hung just over the desk. 

Taren washed up and settled into bed quickly, moving in an easy routine around the room and kicking his clothes off into a lazy pile. Dorian undressed and folded his things neatly, and watched as Taren stretched and massaged his leg according to the instructions of the healers and took a tiny draught of a clear potion in one quick sip. A sensation fluttered in his heart that struck him disconcertingly as one of both approval, and faint worry.

Taren fell asleep quickly, curled onto his side with one arm draped over Dorian’s chest, and his face buried into his shoulder. Dorian smiled, wrapping an arm over him to pull him in closer as he drifted off himself. 

He woke to a shifting on the bed, but the dark behind his eyes was still solid, and as Taren’s feet quietly tapped away into silence he quickly slipped back into it. 

Dorian woke again, to the sounds of shuffling papers. The dark behind his eyes was still mostly solid, though something bright flickered across it occasionally, and as he shifted himself under blankets the space beside him stood out as glaringly empty. He opened his eyes groggily to find that the light was emanating from the desk, where Taren sat hunched over papers as a thick candle burned low at his elbow. 

“Taren?” His shoulders sprang up at the sound of Dorian’s voice, and he looked back to the bed with a start. “What are you doing?”

“Sorry I woke you.” Taren stood, offering a hushed apology as he took a couple steps back toward Dorian. Dorian pushed himself up into a lean on his elbows. “I just needed to finish something, and I couldn’t sleep, so I…” He jumped into a quick, stuttering explanation. 

“Slow down.” Dorian said, still only half processing the words,“just come here.” 

Taren hesitated, stopping midway between the bed and the desk with a frown. 

"It's no use staying up here if I have to sleep alone.” He pointed out. 

“I just need to finish…” 

Dorian sat up fully, watching him. His expression wasn’t obvious, in the dark, but his tone was unsettled. 

“You’ve done plenty for one day.” He moved to the edge of the bed, gesturing at the open space invitingly. 

“It never feels like enough.” Taren sighed the words out in a guilty hush, but he resumed his movement toward the bed, coming to sit at the edge of it with heavy shoulders and a gaze that wouldn’t meet Dorian’s. 

“More bad dreams?” Dorian asked, pulling up to him with his arms around his middle. Taren didn’t talk about his nightmares, and he busied himself immediately every morning as though they were forgotten. But he shook and shivered sometimes in the night, apologizing and shaking his head over them if Dorian woke, then returning to his sleep with arms that clutched onto his a little tighter. 

“No,” Taren sank back into Dorian’s arms as he spoke, shaking his head with that apologetic tone once more, “I just can’t seem to stay asleep.” 

Dorian pulled him back some more, further into the bed, and placed a sleepy kiss on his forehead. “Why not?” 

He wasn’t the right person for this; coaxing out little painful truths with gentle care. He was not gentle, or careful, or even really sure what he could possibly offer to help, but he wanted to try. 

“I can’t get what it said out of my head.” Taren admitted, still shaking his head while he spoke. 

“What did it say?” The nightmare demon had spoken to all of them in the Fade, Taren had told him, taunted them with their fears and insecurities. He’d explained it rather academically, really, and the discussion had moved on to other things that went on in the real Fade, like lyrium veins and ghosts of dead Divines.  _ “And what deepest insecurities did this nightmare taunt  _ you _ with, Amatus?” _ Had hardly seemed a fitting thing to follow up with. 

Taren sighed, “that I’m not enough.” He breathed the words out with a self-deprecating sort of laugh, speaking quietly, “that I never will be, that nothing I  _ do _ can…” He trailed off, shrugging unhappily into him. 

“Amatus,” Dorian pulled tighter around Taren’s waist. _Not enough_. Why, he was only brilliant, hard working, caring, _good_ , what more could the world need? He’d only left his whole life behind, been thrown headfirst into an impossible position, taken on every problem from Orlesian politics to the study of ancient Tevinter history, had his damned _leg_ torn apart by fearling demons… Dorian’s jaw clenched a little at the sight of Taren’s frown. The things he would have said to the blighted nightmare, had he been there.

“It was a  _ demon _ ,” he said reassuringly, “that’s what they do.” 

Taren sighed again. “I know.” He said, though he didn’t sound convinced. It had found something, the way demons did, pushed at a weak point in his spirit with more than just cruel words. Taren knew demons as well as he did, as well as any powerful mage, but to avoid temptation in dreams was one thing, to walk in the fade would surely have been another. “I’ve just always felt that way.” He admitted now, and Dorian understood what the demon had done. “When I first started to show my magic, I hid it. I was terrified that it would ruin everything, that  _ I would _ …” Dorian kept his arms around him, the quiet swell of emotion in Taren's voice sending his stomach into a lurch. “I know I had to leave, and I’m grateful for the life it gave me but... That life, knowing I’d come into all that responsibility,” he gave his head one of those little shakes, the ones that looked like he was trying to toss some stray thought away, “it wasn’t something harsh, it was just always  _ there. _ ”  _ And he never had anyone else to blame. _ Dorian couldn't assemble a response. Taren was talking, honestly sharing just as he'd been failing to do for days now, and Dorian had no idea what to say. He kissed his temple, and pulled him back to lean into him, stretched out properly over the length of the bed. "I tried so hard never to do anything wrong, as though if I simply did everything perfectly it could…" 

"Make you enough." Dorian finished, swallowing dryly as Taren nodded. It hurt, physically, knowing this about him,  _ caring  _ about this. That same sensation that had pulled him to him, night after night, wrapping them together in passion, seemed to have wrapped itself up in his gut and pulled tight. The  _ things _ he would have said to that nightmare, had he been there. 

"Maker, but you  _ are _ ." He found himself whispering, kissing it into Taren's ear. "You are enough, you are…”  _ Everything. _ "You are not alone, Amatus." 

Taren sighed, slumping into him and obscuring his face in Dorian's bare chest. "I know. Thank you. I -" 

"- Don't apologize." 

Another sigh. 

"Just try to sleep." 

And he did, acquiescing by pulling the blanket up over them both, as Dorian snuffed the flame with a snap of his fingers from across the room. 

He didn’t wake again in the night, not rising until pale yellow sunlight fell in through the windows to wash over his eyes. But when he did wake, it was again to an empty bed. He sat up, looking around with bleary-eyed confusion, to find Taren awake and already halfway through a stack of letters, sitting with his feet up on the couch, a tray of breakfast foods set on a low table beside it. He looked up as Dorian found his way out of bed, and smiled at him. 

“Good morning,” he stood, leaving the half-read stack of letters to the side on the couch, and taking a small mug of something from the tray. He pressed the warm mug into Dorian’s hands as he approached, and leaned up to kiss his lips softly as he did. Dorian followed him to the couch and sipped at the coffee eagerly. It was still hot, and not in a stale, kept-hot way, but fresh. At least he hadn’t overslept by much, then. 

Taren was busy buttering toast, and he swung his feet back up onto the couch as he sat back with his plate, eating with little regard for crumbs. 

This wasn’t routine. Taren hated to have servants bring him things, and usually he was a member of the early crowd at the large open breakfast served downstairs in the main hall. Sometimes he went out to the gardens first thing, but often he’d sit at a table with other early risers; Cullen, Josephine, and Harding, when she was there. And they would typically get straight into business, while Dorian would leave him to it. Secretly, he often went on to his own room to sleep another hour or two. 

Dorian looked over the tray of food, it was rather well supplied. There were various fruit preserves, pastries, bread and butter, even cooked ham. “I didn’t know what you liked.” Taren explained, noticing him. “So I just sort of grabbed everything.” Dorian stopped looking at the breakfast and turned to look at him. 

“You’ve been down and back already?” 

Taren looked sheepish. “Didn’t want to wake you again.” He shrugged, “I haven’t been up long, but I figured I could,” he nodded his head at the pile of letters he’d been reading, “and bring back breakfast.” 

Dorian shook his head in mild disbelief, then frowned as a new realisation dawned on him: “Taren, you can’t be  _ serving me breakfast _ .”

Taren chuckled lightly at his surprise. “Why not?”   


Dorian remained frowning, he could think of a few reasons: the Inquisitor refusing to let anyone wait on him was one thing, the  _ Inquisitor _ waiting on  _ him _ was another. And an elven Inquisitor who took breakfast up to his chambers for his Altus lover was sure to hit the gossip mills by late morning, if it hadn’t already. But Taren was chuckling about it, as unbothered by the constraints of proper decorum as ever, and as a result he was drinking hot, fresh coffee on a pleasantly sunny morning with him, on his comfortable couch. The feeling of warmth in that scene was so wholly new to him that he struggled for a moment to remind himself what was wrong with it. 

“It’s just so  _ domestic _ .” He said, half-teasingly, half-sure that he was in real and true peril from the comfortableness of it all. 

“Oh no, do you think all the Shems will feel they’ve finally domesticated me?” Taren laughed, cutting right into what was the most unfair of Dorian’s worries. 

“Or that I have.” He noted, now less than half-teasing. 

Taren gave his arm a squeeze, “let them.” How easily he seemed to go about that defiance, why, when everything was so against him, did his concerns stop  _ there? _ “I wish you would stop worrying about how I look.” 

Dorian attempted it, still frowning into his coffee. 

“I know you mean well,” Taren went on, still bright, but serious enough in his tone, “but I’ll bring you up breakfast if I damn well please.” He laughed, and Dorian couldn’t help but smile, though he found himself guiltily wondering if it was Taren or  _ himself _ he worried for more. 

“Well, you’ve also now outdone me.” He teased, “and I hate to be outdone.”

They spent a long morning together, finishing much of the food and only parting ways long after the main hall had cleared from the morning meals. Taren did have work to attend to, and he went off to his usual business of meetings, but he seemed a little lighter, even if the limp of his leg was heavier. 


	28. Moving Forward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A wake for Hawke, but also a party, because that was Hawke. Just fucking around with the plot idk. How many chapters in a row are going to take place at the goddamn bar? Pacing issues be damned, we've got friendship, relationship advice, Cullen gets punched in the face. It's got drama and corny dialogue and gambling, and it's exactly what Hawke would've wanted.

The tavern was full. Anyone who wanted to come to pay their respects was welcome, and the bar was open, all drinks on the Inquisition’s tab. In the middle of it, Varric had pulled together two long tables and begun another round of Wicked Grace. The games were casual and rife with cheating, as people dropped in and out of the roundtable conversation that formed there, playing for conversation. Bets were placed for free drinks, stories, and the little souvenirs that soldiers liked to trade around, rather than real coin. 

Leila went first to the bar. She hadn’t known Hawke, had only seen her from a distance and in the fighting. She had watched enough, though, to decide that the Champion of Kirkwall had lived up to her reputation. She had admired her from within the crowds at the tavern and laughed at her jokes. Then she had watched her go out with a self-sacrificing act of bravery -- and insanity. That instinct was something they had in common, but it had felt awful to actually watch her do it. Varric's tales had lent her infamy, and to read them it felt like the Champion was altogether unstoppable -- _invulnerable --_ but she hadn't been. Reckoning with that seemed to have given every soldier in Skyhold whiplash.   


The party was a beautiful idea, she had to admit. The energy that it brought back to Varric to have these people gathered for drinks and reminiscing was hopeful, and his tales brought back some light to the tavern after the last week of dreariness in Skyhold. The tavern was fuller than it had been in days. More soldiers had returned from Adamant, and the sounds of instruments and singing filled every floor. Pints of ale clinked together cheerfully and people were laughing, huddled around Varric to hear his tales, or settled around tables to share stories of thier own and celebrate what victories they could. The Inquisitor had called the event a celebration of life, and Varric had announced that Hawke's will demanded a night of good cheer. Together, they had created one, and part of her hoped it might rub off on her.  The fall into the fade had destroyed Leila’s ability to sleep. And after her latest embarrassing attempt at social drinking, she had set herself to mostly seeking quiet. The boisterousness of the tavern felt overwhelming now. She tried to remind herself of how to at least perform at confidence, if she could not actually feel it. A long gulp of ale helped. Bull’s Chargers were newly returned, and they had brought some much needed levity with them. They and many others were already at Varric’s game, listening and laughing along to tale after tale. 

She watched the dwarf as he talked, animated and smiling. Under all the showmanship of a storyteller, he was still sad. Deeply, rooted into his bones, sad. He would probably never quite walk the same. She sighed, reminded again that these were troubled times for all of them, even if the others didn’t have her nightmares. A pang of something sympathetic overruled her discomfort at the crowd, and she moved toward the table, keeping note of her exits. She narrowly avoided the Inquisitor as he came to the stool near her to ask for a drink. He tossed her a smile as she hurried away, and it felt annoyingly concerned. 

Twice, he had tried to talk to her about what happened in the Fade. The first time, the questions were mostly matter of fact, part of the job. She had snapped at him a little, when he asked about her own visions, and a little more than that when he had asked if she was alright, if she might want to talk. The second time he had asked about the things the demon said, and she had been unfriendlier still. Answering with facts, biting at any further concern. The Inquisitor looked sad too, as well as utterly exhausted, and she felt badly about her behaviour. Still, she did not want to talk. 

Around the table were Varric, Sera, Krem, Maryden the bard, Bull, and the Chargers Skinner and Grim. She pulled up into the empty space at the end of the table, next to Skinner, avoiding Krem’s eye, and Varric dealt her in on the next round. 

Varric’s stories about the legend of Mad Madeline Hawke were funny, and she wished that she had found the nerve to talk to her, at least to thank her. It seemed that Hawke had singlehandedly served as population control over the Coterie thugs and corrupt Templars of Kirkwall during her years there. She let the laughter caused by Varric’s storytelling push some more of her rigidity aside, and the alcohol on her lips did the rest. She sorted the cards in her hands and turned a keen eye to the faces of her opponents at the table. A corner of Krem’s mouth always twitched when he had a good hand, a tell that both she and Bull knew. For his part, Bull boasted the inscrutable face of a true Qunari spy when it came to cards, but if he smirked at Krem’s tell it meant that his own hand was terrible. If Skinner talked too much it was because her cards were good, too little and it was because they were  _ really  _ good. The best cardplayer of the Chargers was Grimm, by far, but even he had a tendency to twirl his moustache when the game wasn’t going his way. Leila smoothed out her own expression as she placed her hand face down on the table, and raised her bet. Krem took the bait and lost, and rose to get her a drink, calling her Sticky with a wink as he did. He had an easy demeanor about him, like the whole ordeal of the other night had completely slipped his mind, but Leila still blushed at the nicety of an inside joke. 

Varric raised an eyebrow. “Sticky?” 

“Sounds dirty.” Commented Bull. 

“Maybe it is.” Leila shot back with a smirk and without a thought, then regretted it. She caught Maryden casting her an unimpressed eye. 

“For a thief.” Krem clarified, sounding a little defensive. Or maybe embarrassed. Probably both. “Though right now I think ‘Cheat’ might be more accurate.” He finished with a teasing nod at her, still easy. 

“Word of advice friend, let me handle the nicknames. Yours are all too obvious.” Varric was shaking his head. 

“Hey, those are my nicknames, dwarf.” Bull protested. 

“And they’re all terrible! I mean,  _ The _ Iron Bull. You hear that right? How it sounds in a sentence?” Varric went on shaking his head as he gave The Iron Bull an accusatory look. 

“I like how it sounds in a sentence.” 

“It makes you impossible to write about! My editors will want to kill me.” 

The argument was interrupted as Commander Cullen walked into the tavern, distracting Varric’s attention. The Commander looked about searchingly, his tall frame standing out from the crowd. He was still dressed in nearly full uniform; great big fur cape over his shoulders and a sword at his belt, he missed only his chestplate, gloves and greaves. A couple soldiers near the door saluted as he entered, and Varric raised his pint. 

“Curly! Get over here, Hawke’s will says I have to punch you.” Varric called, waving his pint up in the air with a grin on his face.   


Cullen shook his head but did as he was told, his sarcastic rebuttal of calling the dwarf “very funny” interrupted as Varric stood on his chair to land a punch squarely on the Commander’s jaw. The blow was not so hard as to do damage, but real enough, and Varric's bare fist smacked into Cullen's cheek with a muffled _slap_ that left it fading from white to bright red. Bull erupted in laughter, and Leila tried very hard not to join in. 

“Sorry Curly, wasn’t joking. I can prove it if you want.” 

Cullen was still shaking his head, and now rubbing his jaw. 

“You know she wrote that in at least ten years ago, but she never took it out.” Varric continued, stepping down from his chair and offering the Commander a friendly pat on the back. 

“Of course not.” Cullen muttered. 

“Alright, now let me get you a drink to make up for it.” Varric winked. “Hey Sparrow, come to the bar with us! You two are the closest things to Kirkwall I’ve got, and I need company to talk shit about the old stomping grounds with.” 

“I don’t really think we have comparable memories of that place.” Leila protested, glancing at Cullen and trying not to sound judgemental. He wasn’t a Templar, she reminded herself, and after a drink or two he was even kind of nice. 

“Or fond ones.” Cullen added, returning her wary glance. 

“Right, and those two perspectives will be great for the book. Come on.” 

Leila followed Varric and Cullen to the bar reluctantly. Krem caught them arriving as he was turning to leave, and he handed her the drink she’d won off him with a congratulatory nod. She took it, still not meeting his eye, before sitting to Varric’s left, as Cullen took the stool on his right. 

“She also said to thank you.” Varric turned to Cullen as the bartender poured him a mug of beer. 

“For what?” Cullen took the drink but didn’t lift it, waiting for Varric to recieve his refill. 

“For quitting, I think. Standing against Meredith, trying to rebuild the city.” Varric held up his glass, clanking it against both Leila’s and Cullen’s, and they each stopped to take a swig. 

“The Templars that were left wanted to help rebuild, Varric. I didn’t do much.” Cullen shrugged the compliment off. 

“It’s more good than the Templars would have ever done otherwise.” Varric told him, still encouraging in his approval. 

“You don’t know that, the Order had some good people.” 

Leila snorted, nearly choking on her drink, and both men looked to her. “You can’t seriously still be pro-Templar, after everything.” She challenged, failing to keep her mouth from running off without her. 

Cullen’s brow furrowed. “Not as they were, but I don’t see how leaving mages to develop magic completely unchecked seems like a reasonable solution either.” He countered, “The order should help people, that’s what it was for.”

“Not from where I’m sitting.” Leila scoffed again, more bitterly this time. 

“The Templars in Kirkwall may have been corrupted, but there were some good people there.” Cullen went on insisting, and now Leila’s face was forming a full scowl as she took another drink of ale. 

“No, there weren’t.” She said after a hard swallow. She didn’t stop to wonder if it was fair to direct this grudge once again at the Inquisition’s Commander. He may have been different now, but that didn’t change how things were. 

“Sparrow,” Varric cautioned, “or is it Sticky now?” An eyeroll and a swig of ale before he continued, “Curly here may have been a bit slow on the uptake, but he’s always been one of the good ones.” Varric said soothingly. Was this why he really called them both over? To mend fences? She watched Cullen react from the corner of her eye. She had a picture of most everyone now, gathered through quiet observation; the ways their bodies leaned when no one was looking, the faces they made when they were thinking. Cullen was someone who stood tall even when he was alone, he kept a sureness to his speech, but there was always something restrained behind his eyes. Not once, but twice now had he been unguarded enough to hold a drink in her company. He was bad at card games -- bad at lying -- but good at strategy. When he was drunk, he was funny. He made jokes and talked like soldiers do, asked for help keeping his cards straight. She had decided not to hate him, not even to dislike him, after that. He had a scar still along his collarbone from her dagger. She had told herself to let the rest of it lie. 

“I might argue against you on that point,” Cullen shook his head at Varric’s defence, “but thank you.” 

The humility wasn’t what she had expected. Leila took another drink. 

“And in Ferelden the circle fell to corrupt mages. Mages  _ are  _ just people, which makes them as dangerous as Templars, as anyone with power could be.” Cullen continued reasoning, and she could feel his glance on her without having to look up from her drink. 

Varric stood from his stool, but Leila almost didn’t notice. He walked off with a wave toward the Inquisitor, excitement in his voice, while Leila looked at Cullen. She didn't know enough about what had happened in the tower to argue, but she knew that she had fled it in the dark, clinging to a line of other young apprentices and shivering in fear. Her eyes narrowed, and she kept to her drink in an attempt to settle her aggravated nerves.   


“Mages don’t ask for their power.” She argued back after unhappily finding the bottom of her mug. 

“Which is why they need people to help them!”

“By imprisoning them in towers? Hunting them down? Making them Tranquil?” She turned to actually look at him, her voice almost to a yell. She was apparently still terrible at letting things lie. 

“I don’t think things should be as they were! But there needs to be  _ something _ . Maker knows I don’t have the answer beyond that.” Cullen answered with exasperation in his voice, shaking his head. “As for tranquility, it should only ever have been used as an absolute last resort.”

“But it  _ wasn’t _ .” She said, the words cutting into the air through her clenched teeth. 

“I know that! Why do you think I left the Order?”

Cullen’s expression was pained, but not just because she had offended him. It was the same expression he’d had on his face when she first told him where she had come from, that she knew his history. 

“I know what Kirkwall was like.” Cullen said in a low murmur, his tone apologetic. 

“You really don’t.” She said, even still. She understood that things had changed. The Commander of the Inquisition’s forces was willing to trust her, because the Inquisitor’s trust was good enough for him. She was willing to do the same, for that same reason. 

“And I should have done something about it before I did.” Cullen sighed, and Leila felt her angry determination wavering again, like it had when she had tried to apologize to him, like it had when she had attacked him, just a few short months ago. “I joined the order to help people, I truly believed that was its purpose. Now that purpose is with the Inquisition. Whatever the world looks like after this, I hope there will still be something like that.” Cullen finished his speech with another slow sip of his drink, and he wasn’t sitting quite as straight as he usually did. 

Leila was quiet, turning the words over. “I agree with you, believe it or not.” She admitted after a moment, giving him her approval with a reluctant shrug. “It would have been better to be raised with… something. A safe way to learn. Fending for yourself is no way to learn magic.” She idly pushed at her empty mug, spinning it around on the bartop. “Kinloch Hold… it wasn’t as bad as being an apostate, even before the rebellion.” She raised the cup up as the bartender looked over, signalling for it to be filled again. “But you can’t help people while taking away their freedom. It isn’t right to keep people on leashes.” She dug into her pockets as the bartender refilled her ale, and finished her point with a flick of her fingers, tossing a coin onto the bar as a tip. 

“Templars have their leashes too.” Cullen replied, and the way he said it alarmed her in its sadness. 

“Fuck the whole thing then.” She looked at him again, offering half a cocky smile to go with the attitude. 

Varric returned to the stool beside her then, placing his mug down heavily to await more ale. “Someone tried that. It didn’t turn out so well.” He noted. 

Leila decided once more that perhaps the former Templar was not so entirely bad, because at that inappropriate little comment, he laughed. 

\----

Taren found Alistair leaning against a beam to the side of Varric’s long table, watching the crowd there with amusement on his face and a large mug of ale in his hand. The Warden had agreed to stay until after the gathering in Hawke’s honour, but his plans to leave for Weisshaupt were already set. He greeted Taren with a nod as he approached, a bittersweet smile resting on his face. Griffon lay quietly behind him, wrapped around the leg of a table and apparently unbothered by the commotion of the party going on around her. 

“This is a nice thing you’ve done,” Alistair said, complimenting the party. “I know you didn’t know her well, but she sort of made everyone feel like they’d known her forever, didn’t she?” He sighed. 

Taren nodded in understanding. Madeline Hawke had been every bit the force of nature her legend made her out to be in a fight, but she was also infectious. He had been frankly awed by her, feeling nervous in her company unless it was to talk strategy, but she had never failed to bring laughter to a room. She broke down barriers between people whether they liked it or not, she was impolite and lewd, she told stories and played cards among whoever was at the tavern each night, and her presence in Skyhold had brightened the moods of soldiers and servants alike. It felt  _ wrong _ that she was gone, no matter how heroic and legendary she’d made her last stand. 

“I never thanked you.” Alistair broke the silence between them, “for the Grey Wardens. For letting them rebuild”

“Don’t thank me.” Taren replied, “just make sure they work to fix things.” 

“You don’t have to worry about that.” Alistair promised. “Maker, all this makes me miss Talani. you'd really like her, you know.”

“You must really love each other.” 

“We do.” Alistair always smiled slightly when he talked about her, sad but not.  Taren scanned the crowd as he talked, and as his eye fell on Dorian from across the room, the same smile crossed his lips. Alistair followed his gaze. “But you mean because I'm here and not on the throne. I suppose you dont think it was the wrong choice though, do you?” 

“I'm sure Ferelden would have been lucky to have you.” Taren said seriously. 

“That makes one of us.” Alistair shrugged, “it wasn’t much of a choice really. Maybe that demon had a point and I’d give up anything for her, but the crown? I’d have given that up for a hunk of cheese.”

Taren laughed. Despite the atmosphere around Skyhold, Alistair’s mood had actually improved since their return, after a letter finally came for him from his beloved Hero of Ferelden. Losing him would mean losing another bright spot around the fortress. 

“Anyway, this is all Varric. He wouldn’t let me pay for any of it. Apparently, he’ll more than make it all back when he’s written his book on me.” Taren said, shaking his head. 

“I bet he will.” Alistair chuckled, “still, much better than having your story told by Brother Genitivi, believe me.” He rolled his eyes. 

“I’m still not sure how I feel about having songs written about me, honestly.” Taren shrugged. 

“You know, some of them are quite good.” Alistair chided him. Taren grimaced, and sipped at his drink. “No chance of it going to your head I see.” Alistair caught his displeased look and chuckled again at his expense. 

Making his way toward them through the crowd, a pint raised in a wave, was Varric. Alistair returned the wave and Varric joined them with a friendly and slightly slurred greeting. 

“Warden,” he said warmly, clinking his pint against Alistair’s, “Heral-Taren,” he nodded to him with a smile, quickly supplanting the title with his actual  _ name _ , and Taren raised his own pint appreciatively. “Hawke wanted you to have this,” Varric began to rummage clumsily around in his coat. His garments were remarkable things -- all pockets and plunging necklines -- and after a moment he seemed to conjure a large leatherbound book from an inner coat pocket. “She told me to remind her to give it to you before she left, because she couldn’t remember a damn errand to save her life. But, well.” 

“I…” Taren hesitated as he took the book from Varric and examined it. It was a new, and hard bound copy of her own tale. He opened the book to its first page and found it inscribed with handwriting that was messy and spiked with sharp lines. 

> _ Mad Elf, _
> 
> _ follow your [scratched out beyond legibility] heart, figure the rest out later. _
> 
> _ Mad Maddie  _

“That sounds like her.” Alistair commented as he read the inscription over Taren’s shoulder. Taren traced the ink with his finger gently.  _ Mad Elf  _ was a nickname born out of prejudice, not recklessness as hers was, but he suddenly felt in good company to see it written there in the jagged script of the dauntless hero. 

“Thank you.” He said seriously to Varric as he closed the book and turned it over carefully in his hands. 

Varric said nothing, but raised his pint again as if to say  _ your welcome _ , and then took a long drink. Just then, the sound of Leila’s exasperated voice in Cullen’s face came to them from the bar, and Varric looked over with a frown. 

“I should go manage that.” He said jovially, nodding to Alistair and Taren as he began to step away. 

“Are they -- is she --” Taren was about to ask Varric if everything was alright, if he needed help, but Varric chuckled and shook his head. 

“My fault. Call it character study, but I should get back before our Sparrow stabs him again.” 

Taren frowned. 

“I’ve got this one, trust me.” Varric continued reassuringly before breaking away to return to his conversation at the bar. 

\----

Leila excused herself from the conversation shortly after Varric returned. Cullen was still glancing at her apologetically between Varric’s stories, and the crowd around him was starting to grow again. She awaited one last refill, and then took her pint with her up to the top floor of the tavern instead, hoping to find a table to sit at that was a little more removed from the action. 

Upstairs, she found Krem. He was engaged in conversation at a table with a couple other soldiers, but his eyes met hers as she ascended the stairs, and his mouth flicked up into a smile. She blushed, and turned to find an empty spot on the other side of the room. 

Moments after she had settled in alone, Krem joined her. He stood by the table with a warm smile, and casually asked her if the seat across from her was taken. She shook her head, but continued avoiding his eye as Krem sat down. He didn’t say anything right away, but the look he gave her over the rim of his glass as he took a sip from his drink was a question in itself. 

“I’m sorry.” She sighed out, aiming the words directly at the heavy wood table, rather than across it. 

“Sparrow, it’s fine. That’s the point, ok? Cards, drinks, dancing; friends. I’m fine…” He paused, watching her while he spoke. She looked up, an embarrassed flush still on her cheeks. “Are you?” She looked away again. 

“As anyone.” She huffed, “I owe you an apology though, I was being stupid and I was mean.” She shrugged, stubbornly grimacing at the table. “Don’t have a lot of friends.” 

“You were scared.” Krem corrected. “Feels more like I’m the one that should be…” 

Scared. Not quite. “Fuck that,” Leila interrupted, and she smirked to sell it as Krem looked back at her in surprise. “I’m not fragile. I just…” She didn’t want to explain; wasn’t sure that she even  _ could _ . She kept the smirk, “I’m out of practice.” 

Krem was quiet for a long moment, and Leila filled it with another long sip of ale. 

“We all have scars, it’s nothing to be ashamed of. They’re sexy.” Said Krem eventually, meeting her insistent smirk with just a faint touch of humour. 

“Yours, maybe.” Leila replied, giving him an appropriately exaggerated eye roll in return, though inwardly she felt her nerves building, and her hands went cold.  Krem rolled up his sleeve, revealing a long scar across his left bicep. “From a bar fight in Llomeryn, broken bottle over a lost game of Wicked Grace.” He explained. 

“Must have been some bet.” Said Leila. 

Krem kissed his bicep, giving Leila a wink as he did, and rolled the sleeve back down. Leila chuckled weakly at the action, and made a point of rolling her eyes again. 

“And this one,” Krem lifted his shirt to show his right hip, where a faded white lump of scar tissue pointed downward to disappear under the waistband of his trousers, “came about when some men back in the army figured out I didn’t have the right sort of equipment between my legs.” 

“Sorry.” Leila’s smirk fell. She really did care about Krem, and that alone left her frozen to the spot. 

Krem dropped the shirt. “They looked worse than me, by the end.” He said, reassuring but with a slight bitterness of his own. “They aren’t all from acts of daring. If anyone understands that…” He shrugged. “Mercenary, right? Wouldn’t judge.” 

Leila sighed. “Yeah.” She looked away from him again, a crease in her brow as her mouth tipped into a frown. “I know. I just...can’t.” She said, quieter than she meant to. Her voice strained to get even that close. 

“Then you don’t have to.” Said Krem, while Leila continued to look unhappily at the table, “but if you’re worried about how they make you look…” Krem continued, “I promise you have nothing to worry about from me.”

“I am. I know it’s stupid.” Leila latched onto the suggestion, and made a quick exit from the conversation. 

“Hey, I'm still a gentleman, alright? I can back off.” Krem offered, and he smiled with a patience she didn’t wholly understand. 

“I’m not a total mess.” She said finally, finding herself warmed by it, anyway. “I can do friends.” She could try, at least. 

Krem smiled again, and quickly invited her away from the lonely table and toward another gathering crowd. Maryden had come upstairs, recruiting singers and lute-players to help her entice the crowd below into dancing. Krem grinned as he agreed to join her, and winked toward Leila, who rolled her eyes once more in response but joined the crowd along with him. She tried not to let her thoughts stray too far as she let music, conversation, and the familiar building warmth of drunkenness wash over her. Before long, her voice was mingled with the somewhat tuneless chorus of Skyhold's mages, mercenaries, scouts, and soldiers, as the evening turned to night, and the party for Hawke buzzed on.


	29. Mad Maddie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An elegy by Varric Tethras.

Her name was Madeline Hawke, and she lived an impossible life. If you’ve read the Tale of The Champion, you knew that already -- though you might not have believed it. But while that account illustrated all the impossible things that she accomplished, it did nothing to credit just how impossible she really was. 

Her friends called her Maddie, or Mads, and she would smile. Her mother never called her anything shorter than Madeline, but her brother Carver always called her “Crazy”. Sometimes with endearment, but usually he just meant it. They had been through a lot, the whole Hawke family had, before I ever met any of them, but Maddie never showed it. That was part of her crazy, I suppose. At least, it got under Carver’s skin. Because Madeline, she could laugh at anything. There were holes in that house, and she filled them up with laughter. She never let a single moment pass her by - she was someone who really knew how to live life. When life had her cornered in an alley, she could turn the tables, and take it for every dime it had. 

Madeline Hawke was an apostate. That isn’t something that was publicised much. Perhaps she never stopped moving because she never could, but by the time I knew her, it was more than that. She needed to move and to fight and to play, always to play, like a bird needs to fly. Some saw her as childish, and this too was maybe part of that “crazy”; that manic energy that seemed to have no end -- all laughter and bar fights, drinking contests and dancing on tables -- but she knew the truth: that joy was important. That life was for living, and she would never stop, never back down from a good bit of excitement. Not for anyone. If you knew her, really knew her, then maybe you could understand why. Some people smile over their losses to compensate for it all, but that wasn’t Maddie. She kept going because of that truth; the importance of joy. For her, moving forward was a necessity. She was driven to live more fully, more freely, more _life_ , for all those people she loved that no longer could. 

I can’t tell you much about where she came from, other than that she was born in Lothering, and that her family fled Ferelden during the Fifth Blight. If she lost friends there, she kept it to herself. But she and Carver did lose family then, a sister whom she could only describe to me as “lovely”, before tears welled in her eyes. Carver told me more of Bethany, but that is another tale. I mention it now because you need to know, to understand, that this was a woman who never let any of her losses lie. They hung in her heart so that it was heavy, so heavy, and yet she could still fly. 

Carver called her crazy when she decided to invest in an expedition to the deep roads. Foolhardy, dangerous, and insane, were some more of his words. And like her, he was proud, strong, devoted to family. He wouldn’t let Crazy just go off and get killed on her own, so he joined her, and didn’t come back from it. I saw that loss, how it sank into her, how her eyes darkened a little, and her smile faltered. And then I saw her get back up, keep moving, fight viciously back to the surface. I saw her pour out a bottle for him, vowing to keep going, to do good. And I know that she blamed herself, and never stopped blaming herself, even though she kept on moving, even though she went on to live for him too. 

Maybe you think that she lived selfishly. She took coin where she could get it. In the beginning she robbed and she fought for it. Later, she swindled nobles and she cheated at cards. She took on lovers, she drank too much, she swore more than the worst sailor; and she loved that sailor, too. But she didn’t live for herself, she lived for everyone who couldn’t. And she didn’t hurt anyone who didn’t deserve it, and those who did deserve it… well, she let them see that madness real up-close. She protected her friends like family, and then, one day, they were the only family she had left. 

She was the sort of person who made decisions, not because she was qualified, but because someone damn well had to. She decided with her heart, and never looked back. And she lived that way right until the very end. Every fight she fought, she fought for the good of someone else. Every choice she made, she made in the interest of life - of bettering it, for herself, sure, but for every poor orphan like her, too. The nobles of Hightown weren’t her people, and never would be. Her people were the whores and the scoundrels, the alienage elves and the apostate mages. Her people were her friends, her band of misfits, her family. Maker save you if you laid a finger on that. 

So when I tell you that Madeline Hawke -- Mad Maddie, as I called her -- was an impossible woman, I want you to really understand: she loved more deeply than anyone, fought more fiercely, laughed more fully, danced more wildly and lived more magnificently. I want you to believe that, to know it, as I did. Because Madeline Hawke’s was too big a life, too fantastic a tale, for even me to make up. Everything you ever heard about her, legend that she became, was true -- and more. She was glorious, and hilarious, and the luckiest blighted bastard of a woman I have ever known. She didn’t waste a single second she was given. And maybe this last bit is selfish, but to me she was, and will always be, the best damned friend I ever had. 


End file.
